


Velaris: Fury and Ruin

by Rhysand_vs_Rowan



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-02-18 08:58:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13096755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhysand_vs_Rowan/pseuds/Rhysand_vs_Rowan
Summary: Following a disastrous attack on Hybern, Cassian’s wings are broken, Azriel is critically wounded, and Feyre is dragged to Spring by Tamlin. Rhysand must now earn the forgiveness of his friends, protect his new sisters-in-law, and find a way to protect Prythian from a looming war- all without his mate and best friend by his side. **You do not need to read my previous series "Velaris" to follow this. It is a sequel in name alone.**





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Madja was moving before the mist even cleared.

“Which one, what did Amren break, and how much life did she leave in them this time?” The ancient healer moved fast, but she wasn’t rushed or hurried. Every motion was deliberate, every jar or bottle she deposited in her open medicine bag was carefully (yet quickly) placed.

“Cassian’s wings were shattered, the membrane is torn, and he’s lost three pints of blood so far.” Rhys voice shook, but he had to stay calm. There would be time later to feel it all, “Azriel was shot in the chest with a bolt- poisoned, I think. We left it in until Mor could heal him, so he’s only lost a little blood. Amren is working on Cassian right now.”

“The green powder, white paste, and that entire jar of trefoil.” Madja pointed to a case behind Rhys and he immediately selected what she’d asked for. The trefoil wouldn’t fit in her bag, so he held the jar tight. “What happened to them?”

“We launched an attack on Hybern. He was waiting for us.”

Madja’s face paled a bit and she added more to the overflowing bag, “Hybern’s forces used a special strain of tetrodotoxin in the War. For the sake of time, I hope he’s a male of tradition. Are Cassian and Azriel conscious?”

“No. I don’t know how long but- within the last five minutes they faded. Cassian kept stirring, but now he isn’t- isn’t-“ Rhys pounced viciously on the tightness in his throat and forced himself to breathe.

“Alright,” Madja said quickly, “I’ve got enough to get started, but do you still remember where everything is?”

“Yes,” Rhysand said quickly.

As a youngling, when his mother was pregnant with his baby sister, Rhysand apprenticed Madja in secret for nearly six months. He’d winnow to her every evening after his Illyrian training and remain long after Madja retired for the night. The exhaustion was a physical pain by the time the baby was born, but he never missed a single day. Rhysand didn’t want to be the kind of big brother who sat idly by when she was sick, worrying over every cough or ever twinge of discomfort from his mother. He wanted to be someone who could snap into action before the healer was even called.

Since then that training had saved countless lives, both in the War and after. Whenever Cassian and Mor forgot to fear Amren and were left in bloody heaps, Rhysand was there to help put them back together. Though, Amren never did any damage that couldn’t be healed within a couple of days.

“I’m ready,” Madja grabbed his wrist and Rhysand didn’t hesitate. He winnowed them both to the foyer, where Mor and Amren were still trying desperately to heal Cassian and Azriel.

The females wouldn’t even _look_ at Rhysand.

“Thank you Amren, but please stop,” Madja said quickly. She’d known Amren long enough that the female listened to her request without objection. Amren disagreed with Madja only once, and because she did not follow her command an Illyrian lost his wings. He’d killed himself, and though Madja never blamed Amren outright, she knew the female now understood when to bow to a healer’s orders.

“I only told the blood to clot around the wounds.” Amren said. With the previous Illyrian, she’d told his body to _heal_ , which translated to his physical form permanently sealing off the damaged wings and killing the nerves within. That Illyrian was some anonymous soldier, Cassian was _infinitely_ more precious.

Not that she would ever admit it.

Madja put a hand on Cassian’s shoulder, then looked to Azriel. Mor was concentrating wholly on pouring as much power into him as his body would take.

“You look closer to the grave than either of them, Lady Morrigan. Take a break,” Madja left Cassian’s side and put her hands over Azriel’s wounds.

“I won’t just sit on my ass.” Mor snapped.

Madja’s hand shot out to grip Mor’s chin with a strength her haggard old face hid. She was a _healer_ , and beneath that old flesh was a female as fit as any warrior, “I don’t want you to sit on your ass. I want you to go eat something so that you have some strength. If I need you to heal this boy some more, I want to know it won’t kill you.”

Mor said nothing, but the moment Madja’s grip eased she jumped to her feet and dashed to the kitchen. She’d eat alright, but no more than perhaps a spoonful of peanut butter.

“You don’t want to be here for this part,” Madja opened her medicine box and quickly removed several vials.

“I don’t care how bad it gets. I’m not leaving.”

“Then promise me something now: If I can’t cannot save them-“ a shiver ran through Rhys, through all of the Night Court, “-you don’t go looking for revenge until you _know_ you can claim it. I delivered you from your blessed mother’s womb personally. I’ve already lost one of her babies, I won’t see the other fall too.” Her voice wavered, more emotion than he’d ever seen her show.

“No promises,” Rhys growled. He closed his eyes and eased the beast back before Madja could chide him, “ _But_ … I will do what I can.”

“Good enough,” Madja found what she was looking for: a series of metal bars with trenches inside that could connect at dozens of angles. Splints for Illyrian wings. She set them aside and quickly filled a half dozen needles with the contents of the vials by Rhysand.

“When I give you the signal, inject these into Azriel as quickly as possible. He’ll scream- and that poison will have made his magic unpredictable. Contain it without hurting him. And Rhysand- however much pain Azriel is in will be nothing compared to what Cassian is about to endure. Be prepared for that too.”

Rhysand nodded and sent a shield to seal off the kitchen. He didn’t want Mor to hear what was about to happen.

“ _One_.” Madja waved a hand over the metal splints and they shattered into hundreds of pieces.

“ _Two_.” She lowered them so that they gently rested over every shattered piece of bone and every hard ridge.

“ _Three_.” Light arced between each piece, connecting the metal even as it began to bind to Cassian directly. Madja looked to Rhysand, who held the needles over Azriel’s chest with his magic. A shield was already around the male, ready to catch whatever power he might unleash.

“ _Now_!” The needles plunged into Azriel’s skin, and those metal splints snapped together, wrenching bone and cartilage back into place.

Rhys knew that until his dying day, he would hear those animalistic screams echoing through the townhouse.

\---

* * *

 

\---

Feyre’s voice came down the mating bond distant and warped, as though she were shouting underwater, “ _I am safe and well. I’ll tell you what I know soon… Are they alive? Hurt?_ ”

Rhysand was in the sitting room, the only place big enough to fit both Cassian and Azriel’s bodies. Madja had gone for the night, promising to return with more supplies at dawn. Mor was somewhere in the Court of Nightmares, hunting down information on Hybern’s poison. Amren- she was prowling the Night Court looking for someone to kill.

_If Azriel makes it to dawn, he will be alright._

Madja’s words hung over Rhys like a death knell. The Shadowsinger burned with fever as poison filled his body. Angry red veins stood out across his chest, neck, and arms- radiating from the oozing black mass of bandages that marked the arrow’s entry. His skin was flushed and sweat-soaked, and when Rhys tried to read his mind all he found was a chaotic and jumbled mess of images.

_If Cassian makes it to dawn… you’ll need a miracle._

He was on the opposite end of the room as Azriel, laying on his stomach on a special table that had a cutout for his face. His wings were strapped to linen-padded splints and pinned wholly open, which only emphasized the rips and tears in them. His skin and wings alike were white as the grave, his breathing heavy and slow, and when Rhys tried to scan his mind-

-a void. Empty. Silent. Dead.

Rhys took a long, shuddering breath and summoned an image of Feyre’s face, the only thing that could chase back the darkness in his soul. With perhaps the last bit of hope he possessed, he sent a reply down the bond to give her the strength she would need in Spring:

“ _I love you. They are alive. They are healing._ ”

As soon as the message was away, Rhysand buried his head in his hands and wept.

\---

* * *

 

\---

“Rhys?” Mor’s soft voice woke him.

He’d fallen asleep.

 _Shit_.

Rhysand jerked to consciousness. Something hard and cold coiled in his stomach. He saw concern on Mor’s face, and his very foundations began to crumble. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak-

“Their condition hasn’t changed.” Her words were somehow like a blow to the gut. They winded him, and Rhys drew a long, shuddering breath as she continued, “I gave Azriel his medicine, but I can’t manage it with Cassian… Can you help?”

“Yes,” he rasped and stood, “yes, of course. I’m sorry.”

Four times per day Cassian was to receive a nearly fatal dose of trefoil tea. It kept his wings paralyzed, but also made his magic recoil and vanished, similar to the effects of faebane. Madja wouldn’t let his natural healing interfere with her rebuilding his wings, and the comatose state gave his body a chance to heal that it wouldn’t have if Cassian was anywhere near conscious. Azriel was on a quarter the dose half as often- only enough to make it difficult to move his wings without knocking much of his magic down. They wanted to discourage Azriel from moving, not stop him from healing himself.

Rhysand forced sleep back and went to Cassian’s side. He used his power to raise the male a bit, careful to tilt his ruined wings in time with his body. He looked _worse_ , not better. The exposed membrane was black and each vein was swollen and purple. His body was in a similar condition- bruised, broken, and bleeding. He needed a miracle, just as Madja had said.

The most powerful Illyrian on the continent, the most powerful High Lord in history, and Rhys couldn’t do anything. None of them could.

Cassian was laying on his stomach, so Rhys seized his mind, all too aware of the overwhelming silence within. He made Cassian tip his head up, then nodded to Mor. She came forward with a goblet filled with cooled tea and a straw. Rhysand made Cassian’s body swallow every last drop of the tea, even though his own instincts screamed for him to spit out the poison.

“I’m sorry Mor,” he said quietly as they finished.

“You’d do the same thing again.” Her tone was completely flat. Conversation over.

Rhys wasn’t done trying just yet, “We didn’t want you treating her differently on the mission, yes, but it was also because she wanted to tell you when we could _celebrate_. Not when we were plotting.”

“And now Tamlin is doing Cauldron-knows-what to her.” Mor snapped. “My best friend, and for all I know she was forced to spend the night in his bed like-“ she bit her own tongue.

“Like me and… and _her_.”

“I’m _scared_ Rhys,” Mor softened her tone. She pulled the straw from Cassian’s mouth and wiped at the edges before letting Rhys lower him back down. “Tamlin’s reputation, their history- what if he’s the same as Amarantha? They were always far too similar; mates- more likely than not.”

“Feyre is smarter than him. If anything goes wrong… she’ll kill him and get the hell out of Spring.” Rhys had to be Mor’s strength. If he let on that the same fear made him feel as though he was about to vomit, she’d lose all hope.

Mor loosed a shuddering breath, “ _I know_. I know Feyre can take care of herself, but-“

“Me too.” A tear slipped down Rhysand’s cheek, “She sent word while you were gone. It wasn’t much- she said that she is safe and well, that she’ll report on Hybern soon… and she asked about Cassian and Azriel.”

“What did you tell her?”

Rhysand looked from Cassian to the Shadowsinger, still fighting for every breath, “I told her they were alive and healing.”

He waited for Mor to make some crack about his and Feyre’s penchant for secrets, but instead she nodded, “Good. She doesn’t need to know, not until she’s home. If-“ Mor put a hand over her heart to contain the sob that tried to break free. When she could speak, it was in a broken whisper, “ _If_ the worst happens, don’t tell her. We- we’ll hold off on the goodbyes until she’s back. Understood?”

“Understood.” That freezing, heavy pain rippled through him once more. If Cassian or Azriel succumbed… He didn’t know if he was strong enough to bear the sight of Feyre crying over their bodies.

“Rhys?” Mor looked at him one more time, “What you’re feeling? That is _exactly_ how we felt all those years you trapped us here.”

“I don’t care if this lasts fifty years or five hundred, as long as we _all_ make it through.”

The front bell rang and Mor sighed, “I don’t think I can survive another fifty years of this.” She walked around Rhys and out of the foyer, closing the doors tight behind her while she saw to the visitor outside.

Rhysand crossed the room to Azriel’s bed and laid a palm across his forehead. He was dangerously hot and shivered violently- but a tendril of shadow wafted across Rhys’ fingers. He wasn’t done fighting. Not yet.

Cassian though…

“He wants to die,” a soft, female voice said. Rhysand whirled to see Nuala leaning over Cassian, inspecting him with her silver mist. The power of a wraith. “He knows what happened to his wings, and he knows everyone is safe, but- he’s in _so much pain_. He’s ready to let go. He _wants_ to let go.”

“Then why hasn’t he?” Rhys whispered.

“Because _she_ won’t let him.”

“Why should Nesta Archeron have _any_ say in what happens to Cassian?” Rhys’ words came out sharper than he intended.

Nuala sighed, “Why did you have any say in what happened to Feyre Under the Mountain?” Her tone wasn’t one of insolence, but resignation. As though she too couldn’t stand the thought of Nesta and Cassian as-

“Do you love him?” Rhys asked. “I wouldn’t be angry, just- do you love him?” Nuala, with her quiet strength and soft demeanor, would be an excellent match for Cassian’s white-hot fire.

“I do… as much as I love you, or Mor, or Amren even.” Nuala’s eyes were sad when she finally raised them from Cassian’s face, “He made a point to find the difference between Cerridwen and I so that he never mixed our names up… He always gave us separate birthday and solstice cards, remembered our favorite perfumes or foods- he’s a good male, and if _she_ keeps him here… then so be it. I would rather learn to love Nesta Archeron for his sake than learn to live in a Prythian without his laughter.”

Rhys said nothing, but he sighed and joined Nuala by Cassian’s side. He sent another flicker of power into his friend, looking for any trace of Cassian buried inside.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“Madja said it will take a miracle to bring him back,” he said quietly.

“A human woman brought down Amarantha, died, and was reborn to become your mate and our High Lady of Night. Her sisters entered the Cauldron itself and emerged as high fae… We live in an age of miracles, High Lord. Perhaps saving Cassian is easier than we think.”

Rhysand hung his head and sighed. He wanted to believe her words, but dread still gnawed at his heart. “How are they?”

“Elain’s condition is the same as Feyre’s was when she first came to Velaris. Nesta… we’re mostly trying to keep out of her way.”

“Thank you,” he murmured. “What time is it?” the curtains were drawn tight.

“Ten in the morning. Madja has been sitting in the dining room for the past four hours, mixing potions and tonics. She didn’t want to disturb you.”

Rhys swore, “Alright. I’ll visit the Archerons by lunch.” Nuala nodded, and began to fade. “Wait.” He jerked his chin to Azriel, “What about him?”

Nuala _finally_ looked to Azriel’s body, the one she’d avoided seeing at all. Her face paled as she took in his obvious signs of suffering. A small suspicion creeping at the back of Rhysand’s mind was confirmed.

When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper, “He will be alright. Nothing else is acceptable.” She vanished before Rhys could ask another question.

_If Azriel makes it to dawn, he will be alright._

Then why did he look so much worse?

Mor knocked softly on the foyer door and opened it just a crack, “Rhysand? You might want to come out here.”

He didn’t want to leave. A part of him was afraid that if he left, his brothers would take the opportunity to slip away forever… But Rhysand tore himself from Cassian and Azriel all the same and slipped out into the hallway.

Or was it a garden?

Flowers of every kind lined the floors- roses, tulips, hydrangea, dahlia- more types than Rhysand even knew the name for flooded the hallway with their heady scents. Greenery was draped here and there, as though the florists ran out of flowers and sent whatever they could. Pies, pastries, and various dishes of food mixed with gift baskets filled with fruits, not to mention the cards- thousands perhaps- that sat in a fat sack by the door.

And faeries were still bringing them in.

Mor clutched Rhysand’s hand tightly as the hallway filled and workers carried more out to the balcony, “People saw Madja rush in yesterday, and this morning she was buying rare herbs in such massive quantities- word spread that someone was hurt. They don’t know if it’s you, me, Cassian, Azriel, or Feyre- but they wanted to show their support all the same.” Tears threatened to spill over at the sheer display of love from Velaris to those who watched over it so faithfully.

Rhys had forgotten just how large his family truly was.

“An age of miracles,” he whispered, echoing Nuala’s words. Cassian needed one to survive, but with all of Velaris showing their support-

Rhysand closed his eyes, breathed in the scents filling the townhouse, and dared to let a sliver of hope into his heart.

\---

* * *

 

\---

 “Oh good, Feyre’s _whore_ remembers we exist.” Nesta spat the moment Rhysand was in sight.

He stiffened at that word, at all the memories it conjured. Red flashed in his vision, and a roaring filled his ears that was difficult to stomp down. Rhys put a shield around Nesta, not that she could tell, just in case he couldn’t force that sudden, blinding rage down.

The way his eyes glazed over- the tremor that ran through his hand- angry as Nesta was, she knew she’d gone too far with that particular insult. So she stayed quiet, and waited for Rhysand to make the first move. He had the look of a dangerous predator preparing to strike, and she wasn’t going to be the thing that drew his focus.

“I apologize for my delay in coming here.” Rhysand’s voice was pure ice, but a modicum of focus returned to his eyes, “I had things to take care of in Velaris.”

“Where the _hell_ is my sister? I have some very choice words for that little-“

“Be careful,” Rhysand snapped. His voice shook with barely contained rage as the male in him growled at any who would dare insult his mate. Feyre was in Spring, but that didn’t change the fact that the mating frenzy still had a tight grasp on his heart. He was desperately protective of her, even against her own vile sister. “Feyre is more to me than what you would even consider a ‘wife’, and she is a High Lady of Prythian. Insulting her in my domain is _begging_ for death.”

Sane, Rhysand would never have threatened his mate’s sister. Sane, he would have simply found an excuse to be anywhere else. But with Cassian and Azriel barely clinging to life, and considering _Nesta_ was the only thing keeping Cassian from death, he was on edge to say the least.

“Oh, so you’re not bothering with manners anymore, I see.” Nesta snarled.

“You don’t, why should I?”

Silence hung between them before the last bit of tension from Nesta’s _first_ remarks finally left his body. Rhys loosed a long breath, “This isn’t how I intended to begin our conversation.”

“Yet here we are.” She snapped.

Rhysand counted slowly to ten, looking around the room all the while. If he could gauge how Nesta and Elain were doing from that alone, perhaps he could go back to pretending they didn’t exist.

They were in a large suite on one end of the House of Wind which offered a spectacular view of Velaris through one set of windows and the endless sea of mountains through another. Despite that, the curtains were all drawn, as if Nesta were _determined_ to ignore even the existence of Prythian, in complete denial of where she was and what she’d become.

She wore a simple blue dress, but it was wrinkled at the edges, as though she’d been sitting uncomfortably for a long time. Her hair was expertly done by Nuala and Cerridwen, yet pins appeared to have been pulled out here and there, leaving tendrils to fall unbidden. It looked as if she were trying her best not to move, to the point where she let the twins do her hair for her, even though Feyre had once told Rhysand that Nesta _hated_ others helping her dress or groom.

There were no books to be found in the sitting room, nothing to show what Nesta may have been doing before Rhysand arrived. Elain was in direct sight to her elder sister, but she was laying in bed with the sheets pulled up to hide herself from the world.

“I think what Feyre struggled with the most was learning to move in this form,” Rhysand said quietly when his gaze fell back to Nesta. “Your limbs are longer, your fingers are longer, and everything looks different.” He didn’t read her mind, though she was broadcasting loud and clear. Her less-than-meticulous appearance, the way she’d positioned herself to watch Elain and nothing else- it made her condition clear enough.

“Maybe _she_ had trouble, but I most certainly am not.” Nesta snapped.

“Have you eaten? Are you hungry?”

“We don’t need any of your pathetic excuses for food,” she growled. “Just take us home.”

“That isn’t happening, and it isn’t up for negotiation.” Rhysand’s tone made it clear he wasn’t budging on that. “If you return home, Hybern will torture the both of you to death just to prove a point. He knows now that you don’t give half a shit about Feyre, but Elain is your weakness. He’ll make sure you’re the one begging him to kill her before the end.”

Nesta’s snarl very nearly gave Rhysand pause. Something mighty and dangerous lit her eyes- a power Rhys had seen for only a second in that throne room, “Don’t you dare pretend you know how I feel about Feyre.”

“Oh, you’ve made that clear enough,” he said. “She kept you ingrates alive for _years_ while you stomped all over her. You couldn’t even be bothered to teach her to read- which nearly got her killed, by the way. You sent her off to Prythian to die and actually looked _disappointed_ when we all came knocking. Do you want to know what happened yesterday? She saved your lives and sold herself to a male who facilitated the _slaughter of my family_ \- and that was when I was _friends_ with him. Your thanks for her sacrifice are ‘very choice words’, which I’m willing to bet are not, in fact, an expression of gratitude.”

“I will not be talked down to by -“

“Someone older, wiser, and more powerful than yourself?”

 _“She’s been through something horrific_ ,” he could almost hear Feyre’s admonishment, though the voice in his ear was nothing more than his own conscience. “ _She is angry and afraid, and you just keep taking your own fear and frustrations out on her. If you’re truly older and wiser, put that damned power to use instead of bullying a traumatized female._ ”

“I owe you an apology, Nesta.” Rhysand cut her off before she could say something that would no doubt cause him to escalate their argument further. “Feyre is gone, and I can’t protect her. My friends are gravely injured, and I haven’t slept properly in days… I don’t want to fight, and I don’t want to treat my mate’s family this way… Is there anything you or Elain need?”

Nesta wasn’t as ready to simply forgive and move on, “ _Get out, you prick_.”

He _wanted_ to be the mature one, but he couldn’t resist, “You’re too kind, thinking of my wellbeing at a time like this. But you don’t have to use my pet name to cheer me up.”

“I SAID-“

The smile abruptly vanished from Rhysand’s face as he beheld something over Nesta’s shoulder, “Did we wake you? I apologize.” His voice was infinitely softer.

Nesta whirled, only to find Elain standing there with hollow eyes and wearing the frankly _ridiculous_ bedclothes Nuala and Cerridwen had provided them with- ones that didn’t even cover the stomach properly.

“I was supposed to be married in six weeks,” she said quietly.

Rhysand didn’t know how to respond. She was engaged to a faerie-hating bigot, and now she was faerie herself. “I will ask if there is some way to reverse what happened, but I can’t promise anything.” He knew there was no way to make her human again, but Elain nodded as though the lie in his words wasn’t obvious.

“Are you hungry Elain?” Nesta turned her back wholly to Rhysand.

Elain said nothing, but Rhys dared to reach out with his mind and read both sisters. They were famished, they just didn’t realize it.

“Here, you can eat in your rooms if you’d like,” Rhysand waved a hand, summoning food from the kitchens below. Roast lamb and potatoes with fresh summer greens covered a small table in the corner of the room. The scent earned an audible growl from Nesta’s stomach that turned her cheeks bright red.

“I’ll ask Nuala and Cerridwen to bring up some hot tea. Nesta, when you’re ready to try using those fae limbs, Nuala can show you to the House library. Elain- if you’re feeling up to it, Cerridwen can walk you through the garden. It isn’t much to see, but if you can think of improvements I’d be more than willing to fund a renovation.”

He turned, but Nesta’s voice stopped him in his tracks, “So we’re prisoners here now?”

“You are free to come and go from this House as you please, but for the time being you are confined to this place and the city below. If you venture from the House you will be escorted by Mor, Amren, or myself. We don’t know if Hybern will come looking for you, and I won’t risk him claiming prisoners.”

“What about that puffed-up errand boy of yours?” Nesta tried to conceal the hint of worry in her voice, but she spoke too quickly to feign casual interest. “Why hasn’t that _pig_ Cassian come up to meet me yet?”

_He wants to let go._

_Then why hasn’t he?_

_Because_ she _won’t let him_.

Rhysand heard Nuala’s words again. He didn’t want to tell her the truth, that horrible female would probably just say something disgusting in response… But if she was what held Cassian to this world…

“He’s not going to make it,” Rhys said quietly, hating every word. “The healer has done everything she can… but the damage is too extensive.”

He needed a miracle, and if Nuala was right, that meant Nesta Archeron.

 “He’s not going to die.” Her voice was quieter than he’d ever heard, “He isn’t _allowed_ to die. He swore an oath to me, he isn’t going to just _die_ and get out of it like that.”

Rhysand didn’t say anything as he walked out of the room and into the darkness of the hallway. He hadn’t lied, but he’d manipulated Nesta’s perception of the situation, all to force her to hold tighter to whatever force bonded her and Cassian. He wanted to die, he was trying to let go and pass on, but if there was one thing Rhysand and Nesta could agree on it was that Cassian actually had no say in the matter.

He was going to survive, whether he liked it or not.

\---

* * *

 

\---

Mor checked the clock in the foyer, “Wow, fifteen minutes. You lasted longer than I would have thought.” She’d moved flowers to clear a spot on one of the low benches that lined the hallway.

Rhys sighed and took the bottle of wine from her hand. He chugged half of it before returning it to his cousin.

“How did it go?”

“Both a triumph and an embarrassment.”

“How so?”

He closed his eyes a moment and considered taking the bottle back again, “I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that… and I shouldn’t have threatened her.”

“So what’s the triumph?”

“I resisted the urge to kill her.”

Mor huffed a laugh and took a swig of wine, “Congratulations. I’m not sure I’d have that kind of strength.”

Rhys looked from Mor to the closed foyer doors. He pulled the wine out of her hand once more and wet his lips with it, “Am I a horrible mate if I hate her sisters?”

“If you _liked_ them I’d say you were horrible in general,” Mor huffed. “You want to know what I’ve been picturing to help me through this?”

“What’s that?”

“Instead of Lucien Vanserra declaring Elain was his mate, _Tamlin_.”

For the first time in nearly a day, Rhysand felt a smile tug at his face. What Nesta would do to that _beast_ if he tried to so much as touch Elain… It was a wonderful picture.

“So, if you’re not a horrible mate for hating her sisters, am I a horrible friend if I say… I needed a break?” The light vanished from Mor’s face and she stared unblinking at the doors to the sitting room, “I avoided it all night… and I think I’ve spent all of half an hour in there today.”

“It’s hard to see them like that,” Rhys agreed. “Especially since we can’t do anything to help them.”

“And yet… being out here hurts just as much, because if they’re alone they might-“

“I know.” Rhysand put a hand on her shoulder. “Mor, I’m sorry- I’m _so so sorry_ for trapping you here all those years ago. I can’t imagine what kind of strength it took to-“

Mor stood and glared at Rhysand, “Don’t you dare, Rhysand. Don’t you _dare_ stand there and say that you can’t imagine what we went through. What you went through was worse- _infinitely_ worse.”

“It isn’t a contest.”

“Then why do you keep playing to lose? At least we had one another to lean on.”

“I had Nuala and Cerridwen, they kept me as sane as they could.” Rhys felt that dread settling over him once more. It was a different kind of pain- standing helplessly aside while his friends fought for their lives versus the sick dread of being dragged back to Amarantha’s bedchamber… But the crushing weight on his soul was familiar.

The door slid open, and Rhysand braced himself as he looked to Madja’s face. She controlled her expressions so carefully, but this time a soft smile lit her lips.

“High Lord? Morrigan? Someone wants to see you.” She stepped aside- but even running was too slow. Rhys grabbed Mor and simply winnowed into the room. “Impatient little-“ Madja grumbled to herself as she slid the door closed behind her and went back to her concoctions in the kitchen.

Azriel’s fever was broken. His breathing was slow and even, and when Mor ran from Rhysand’s arms to put a hand on his brow, his eyes began to flicker beneath the lids.

“Slowly,” Rhys was breathless as Azriel opened his eyes and an incredible relief washed over him.

Azriel blinked unevenly, and nearly lost the battle to remain conscious. His eyes focused on Mor first, on the love and concern shining in her eyes. They drifted to Rhysand, and he swallowed hard, “We got out?”

“We got out,” Mor said.

“Cassian?”

“He’s- he’s got a long way to go,” Rhys put a hand on Azriel’s arm and gave it a light squeeze.

Azriel’s eyes flickered and he looked between Rhys and Mor- all the way across the room to where Cassian’s body was propped up. Anguish flickered across his eyes as he scented blood, but he only swallowed once more and settled back into his pillows, “He’ll be alright.”

“Your shadows tell you that?” Rhys asked.

“No… because if he dies I’ll walk into the veil and drag him back myself.” Azriel closed his eyes and took a deep breath, “I’ve saved his damn ass too many times for him to throw it all away now.”

“How are you feeling?” Mor didn’t want Azriel dwelling on such darkness, not while he was still so near death himself.

“Like someone shot me in the chest with a poison arrow,” Azriel answered dryly. “Where’s Feyre?”

“The High Lady of the Night Court?” Mor looked to Rhys, “She’s in _Spring_. With _Tamlin_. Playing _spy_.”

Azriel frowned as he tried to make sense of the words, “Madja gave me something really strong, but did she just say… High Lady?”

Rhysand nodded.

“And she’s a spy in Spring now?”

Again, he nodded.

Azriel considered it about four times as long as usual before nodding, “That’s a good plan. I hate it, but it makes sense.” He tapped Rhys’ hand, “Tell Nuala to activate Scour. She’s a spy I keep in Spring. She’ll keep an eye on Feyre for us.”

“’Scour’?” Mor raised an eyebrow.

“She washes pots in the kitchens,” Azriel did his best to shrug. “She thinks she’s a spy for an ambitious little courtier, she doesn’t know it’s me. Even if Hybern personally interrogates her, it’s little more than idle court intrigue.”

“Do you ever stop scheming?”

Azriel couldn’t even keep his eyes open anymore, “I’ll stop scheming when you two let me get some sleep for once.”

“You’ve been unconscious for most of a day,” Mor chided him with a soft voice, barely above a whisper.

“Liar,” Azriel mumbled. “Rhys?”

“Yes?”

“When I’m better… and Cassian’s better… and Feyre’s home safe… I’m going to kick your ass.” His words were slurred, and by the time he finished he was more asleep than awake.

Rhysand smiled softly and patted Azriel’s hand as his friend slipped into unconsciousness, “I’ll look forward to it.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Azriel’s hands shook as he tried to do the buckles on his armor.

Nuala stood to the side and watched, but she didn’t move to help him. Not even when he growled in frustration and entered minute three of trying to loop a single strap through the buckle. There were a half dozen more to go- but he would stand there all day if he had to.

Being so helpless wasn’t a wholly new feeling for Azriel- he’d survived fifty years trapped in Velaris feeling just as he did now… but those fifty years took every last scrap of patience and endurance he had.

He was in the townhouse, in a room on the second floor. It was Feyre’s old bedroom, and her scent still lingered there even though all of her belongings had been moved to Rhys’ room. Her scent only reminded Azriel that while he was in the townhouse, she was out there doing the real work…  _His_  work.

Azriel’s body felt hollow, and far too light. His fingers trembled with weakness whenever he tried to move, his arms were jittery, and his legs burned almost unbearably from just standing there working on that damn buckle. He was too pale, too thin, and still had to excuse himself every few hours to rest and recharge.

It was shameful, and Azriel was almost grateful Cassian’s condition was such that he’d never know how much his brother struggled.

Hybern’s poison was still in his veins. It dissipated a little more each day- and was by no means at risk of killing him anymore- but he was still weak. He could hardly walk around the townhouse, let alone winnow. His shadows were reigned in tight, and he had to rely on his networks of spies far more than he was comfortable with. Nuala interfaced with his spies in the Court of Nightmares, and Azriel trusted her as wholly and completely as any member of the Inner Circle, but he needed to be out there. 

It was endlessly aggravating being stuck in Velaris  _again_.

“Can I at least help with the back?” Nuala sighed.

“I can’t reach the back, so yes.” Azriel’s tone was hard, but Nuala knew the anger was directed at himself- not at her.

She stepped forward to tie the back panels around his wings. Usually Azriel used his magic to hold them in place, but that exhausted him faster and made it hard for him to summon his shadows for several hours. It bruised his dignity to have the panels tied up, but he’d do whatever it took to have at least a little of his might back.

“Madja said you’d be perfectly fine in a few weeks,” she reminded him. “You have to be patient with yourself. If you push too hard, it will take twice as long to recover. Even though it doesn’t feel like it, letting yourself be weak now is a better strategy.”

Azriel said nothing, but a bit of tension eased from his shoulders as resignation set in. Nuala finished with his back and he dropped his arms- silent permission for her to take over on the front. She was careful not to work too quickly, but to emphasize patient grace in doing up each buckle.

“Thank you,” Azriel mumbled.

“Do you want me to deliver the message from Scour?” Nuala asked.

Azriel closed his eyes and let the weight of it all crash into him again. He took Nuala’s hand and gave it a squeeze before opening his eyes, “No. It should come from me… But thank you for the offer. And Nuala?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry for snapping.” He traced the back of her hand a moment before letting go.

“I know,” she offered a soft smile to the weary male. “You’re going to get better. It won’t be as fast as you’d like, but I promise you that I was trained by the best, and I know what to look for in your spies reports. Cauldron save the first spy who tries to pass on bad information.” She dared reach up and stroke his cheek before vanishing.

He watched her go, and felt a piece of his heart go with her. When did it change? They’d been lovers for a brief (but intense) few months centuries ago, an affair they ended because they realized all they felt for the other was lust. They were fine in the hundreds of years that followed- friends in the way Cassian and Mor were…

 _Under the Mountain._ That  _was when it changed._

He’d fallen apart in Velaris, trapped in a beautiful cage while he knew Rhysand was suffering. The stress and grief ate each member of the Inner Circle alive, but Azriel made himself the glue that kept them together. He wasn’t allowed to break. If he did, they’d all go mad. Still, he was cracked and bruised, and when that shield around the city finally vanished and Nuala returned-

-she was broken in all the same ways. She’d given so much of her strength to Rhysand just to keep him sane that her soul had crumbled to dust, exactly as Azriel’s had. They both needed a memory of a time when they were stronger, the kindness of a friend, and a bit of fire to warm their frozen hearts.

“ _Just this once_.” She’d whispered as he opened the door to his bedchamber to find her already nude, laying across the large bed. She’d been open and ready for him.

“ _Just this once._ ” His agreement was a murmur. He’d stripped on the way in, and when he reached the bed he’d crawled across it to settle between her legs. They didn’t speak the rest of the night, though their gasps and cries echoed in the room.

After that… so far they’d come together at least twice a week. They couldn’t seem to stay apart, and Azriel felt a growing fondness in his heart for the half-wraith- that love which was missing three hundred years ago. They’d been too young then, too different. Nuala changed Under the Mountain, just as Azriel broke in Velaris. 

What they became- it was more compatible than what they once were.

When he was unconscious in the sitting room, drowning beneath the weight of Hybern’s poison… It might have been the fever, but Azriel could have sworn he’d heard Nuala’s voice whisper in his ear, begging him to stay. When he tried to pass on to that realm beyond, her cool mist had blocked his path.

Azriel put a hand on the middle of his chest, where that warm love was slowly building, and sighed. There was no point in it, not now. He felt like he was at the end of some long journey, and when Hybern swept over Prythian Azriel knew the fight would claim his life. It was inevitable, and therefore what he felt for Nuala could only lead to heartbreak.

He looked away from where Nuala had been at long last and left the bedroom. 

As long as Azriel kept his movements slow and smooth, he could walk without too much difficulty. The world warped and spun around him, and going up or down steps triggered some kind of vertigo, but it was still an improvement and each day things were just a bit easier.

Cassian’s body was still on the first floor, in a guest room off the main hall that overlooked the back garden. For a week now he’d been unconscious as Madja repaired his wings. Azriel sat with him during the day, all so Rhysand would feel better about going off to meet with contacts or- his least favorite task- the Archeron sisters. 

Nuala managed Azriel’s spies, but Rhysand needed to  _do_  something. He wouldn’t tell the Inner Circle where he was going when he’d vanish for a few hours on his own, but Azriel had a feeling his flights took him far closer to Hybern or the mortal Queens than anyone would approve of.

Azriel reached the door to Cassian’s room without much more than general queasiness. He took a moment to collect himself while the hallway spun and twisted. The cacophony of scents from the small jungle that Velaris residents continued to add to made him dizzy, and Azriel was almost grateful for the sterile, medicinal stench of the guest room.

He opened the door to find Rhysand gently dabbing at Cassian’s chest with a damp cloth- the closest to a bath Majda would allow. She’d healed both wings where they connected to Cassian’s back so that he no longer was kept face-down, which seemed to make it easier for the male to breathe. He’d already lost a great deal of weight, which left his cheeks gaunt and ribs far too visible. Dark circles ringed his eyes and his skin was unnaturally pale.

Rhysand had pulled the blankets down to Cassian’s feet, and only a towel over his hips provided any cover as the High Lord of Night tended to his friend.

“I’ve already done his exercises, and I washed his back and the underside of his right wing. Madja will get the left when she checks in later.” Rhysand dipped the cloth in a bowl of warm, soapy water and began to dab at Cassian’s neck, “I can finish-“

“No, I want to help.” Azriel shook off the offer as he had for the last four days, since he was well enough to be released from 24-hour bedrest. Standing was agony, but he already felt as though he were shirking his duties as spymaster, he couldn’t stomach even the  _thought_  of sitting idly by while Rhysand finished something as simple as a sponge bath.

Rhys sighed, but he knew better than to push, “Alright. All that’s left are his arms, legs from the knees down, and this side of his right wing.” He dipped the cloth into a separate dish of warm water  _without_ soap and wiped away what he’d washed last. Rhys made a face as the cloth snagged on Cassian’s chin, “I’ll give him a shave when I get back.  _Please_  don’t try to do it yourself- you’re not up to it.”

Azriel didn’t argue. The way he wobbled on his legs, the spinning of the world around him- it was as likely he’d accidentally slit Cassian’s throat as properly shave him.

“Where are you going today?” Azriel asked quietly as Rhys handed over the bowls of water and the soft washcloth.

“Day Court. There might be information tucked away in one of those libraries to help us.”

“What kind of information? And does Helion know you’re coming?”

Rhysand shrugged, “I don’t want to involve Helion. Not yet. The last thing I need are a thousand letters a day asking for updates on Cassian… I promised Elain Archeron I would try to find a way to turn them human again, I promised Madja I would look into new research on rebuilding nerve pathways,  _and_  I want to see if I can find anything from the War to help get you back up to par before you go insane. There were hundreds of healers treating people for exposure to that poison. Someone must have at least a theory on how to expedite the recovery.”

“I appreciate it.” Azriel didn’t want to add to Rhysand’s overwhelming load, but if it kept him in a library and out of danger, he considered it his duty to Feyre herself to push. Hell, if he could find a logical reason for Rhys to investigate only the Townhouse interior he would.

“Any word from your spy in Spring?”  Rhys didn’t try to hide the eagerness from his voice, not around his family. He was  _desperate_ for word on Feyre. Worry and grief were eating him alive, and it was only because Azriel and Cassian were in such dire shape themselves that the rest of the Inner Circle hadn’t noticed yet the signs of Rhysand’s stress in those bags beneath his eyes.

“Yes,” Azriel focused intensely on Cassian’s shoulder as he dabbed with the soapy cloth. “Tamlin has accepted her wholeheartedly. She sleeps in her own quarters each night, closer to Lucien than Tamlin.“ Rhysand put a shaking hand over his heart as a massive weight lifted. They’d all be afraid that Feyre would be  _forced_  to share the High Lord’s bed, “She told them… they think-“

“That I raped her?” Azriel winced at Rhysand’s words, then nodded.

 _That_  was why he asked Nuala to let him deliver the report. To soften the blow. They all knew the truth- that Rhysand was the furthest thing from a male who’d ever assault a female- but that didn’t make it any easier to hear. And knowing that Prythian would believe it so readily-

“It’s alright Az,” Rhys said quietly. “If it keeps Tamlin from trying anything, I’m more than willing to add it to my list of imaginary sins. I knew she would have to say something to hide our new scent… and I know how hard it must have been for her. How hard it still is.”

Azriel took a shaking breath and dared a look over at Rhysand. There was a touch of sadness in his eyes, but also overwhelming relief. The mask Rhysand wore was beginning to weigh on him.

“Tamlin is giving her more leash than before,” Az said. “She can go wherever she wants, whenever she wants. He isn’t really letting her out of his sight yet, but when he can’t get away or doesn’t want her following him, Lucien acts as chaperone. It’s not ideal but- she isn’t a prisoner this time.”

Rhysand let out a long breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. As much as he worried about Feyre’s physical well-being, he’d been  _terrified_  that Tamlin would reopen the emotional wounds as well.

“She’s been wandering the manor at night. Nothing suspicious- the maids think she’s afraid of the dark and Tamlin thinks it’s the nightmares again. It sounds to me like she’s looking for something, but I’m not sure what.”

 _His mother and sister’s wings_.

Azriel knew damn well what Feyre was looking for, but he wasn’t going to say it. The last thing Rhys needed right now was a reminder of what happened the last time Tamlin’s family got their grubby hands on someone precious.

“Thank you,” Rhysand walked around Cassian’s body and Azriel offered him a rare hug. “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.”

“I can only imagine.” Azriel patted his shoulder and released Rhys, “I can’t risk having Nuala check in with the girl too often, but it sounds like Feyre is holding her own so far. If there are  _any_  signs of trouble- no matter how small- I’m going to have Nuala get her out. Winnowing with a wraith isn’t a pleasant experience, but it’s better than even a narrow possibility of trouble.”

“I feel like I can finally breathe a little,” Rhysand wiped at a bit of moisture threatening to spill from his eyes.

“We’ll get Cassian up and on his feet- then we can  _all_  breathe again.” Azriel said.

“Deal. Madja will be here in a couple hours. I gave Cassian his tea, I’ll be back at midday to deliver the next dose.”

Azriel nodded as Rhys headed for the door, “Wait- she’s going to ask-“

“Nothing.” His shoulders sagged slightly, and a bit of the weight returned to Rhysand’s eyes, “Ask her if that’s a sign of anything.”

“Alright. Good luck.”

“Thanks, don’t push yourself. If you can’t finish, don’t worry about it- or take a break and catch your breath.” He said.

Azriel wouldn’t stop until the task was done, but Rhys knew it was wishful thinking to even ask his friend to take care of himself for once.

Even though looking down only made Azriel’s head spin harder, he took his time to carefully wipe at Cassian’s arm, then rinsed it off and moved to his leg. He lifted the dead limb to rest against his chest- and very nearly stumbled under the weight of it.

A towel covered Cassian’s groin, and as he washed each leg from the knee down, Azriel kept half an eye on that towel. Madja had told them to watch for any reaction- even just a twitch. That was what Azriel had asked Rhysand about- since Rhys handled Cassian’s chest and thighs. It was a natural response Madja saw in patients even in the deepest of comas- and the  _absence_  of that reaction was more troubling than the old healer would let on. No one did anything to encourage a response, but while they washed off sweat after the daily regimen of stretches Cassian was run through, they were alert for any sign of natural body function.

Once Azriel was done with Cassian’s arms and legs, he collapsed in a chair to catch his breath. The world spun dangerously, and his stomach churned. Azriel rested a hand on a silver trashcan beside the bed and waited to see if the feeling would pass, or if he would be pulling that bin to his face before he vomited.

“Deep breaths.” A cold cloth was pressed to the back of Azriel’s neck. He opened his mouth and a small mint was slipped in.

Mor was silent at his back as Azriel focused on the taste of peppermint and icy chill of the cloth. Bit by bit, the spinning slowed. When he was no longer at risk of throwing up, Azriel dared to open his eyes. He slid his hand back and under Mor’s, holding the cloth so she didn’t have to.

“I know, I know. I’m not supposed to push myself.” Azriel sighed as she walked around him.

“Azriel, I learned a long time ago that you were a lost cause. I’ll tell you no such thing.” Mor lifted the sheets bunched at Cassian’s feet and gently pulled them up to cover him. She crossed to the bedroom window and opened it, allowing some fresh air into the stale bedchamber.

A soft, light scent filled the room. Mor alone knew that the cacophony of flowers in the hallway made Azriel feel ill, so she kept careful track of the ones they stacked in the little garden to free up space. Mostly ferns and flowers with little to no scent were placed outside, but the odd carnation found its way into the mix. Azriel’s favorite scent- and never too strong.

Fresh air was good for Cassian, but it also helped clear Azriel’s head.

“Rhys told me about the report from Spring before he left. It’s a relief.”

“It is. I have to admit- I didn’t expect him to take all of it as well as he did.”

A touch of sadness lit Mor’s eyes, “He’s not angry with her, he knows it’s what she had to say to keep Tamlin away, but… I think it hurts more than he’s letting on. He’s getting sick of Prythian believing the worst of him so readily. He made the damn mask, but after Under the Mountain, I think he was hoping for at least a little credit.”

“We’re  _all_  getting sick of how Prythian treats him,  _especially_  after all he did for them Under the Mountain.”

“After he defeats Hybern it will all go quiet again- at least for a while. The last break lasted nearly four hundred years, if the next is even a full  _year_  I’ll give prayers of thanks at every temple in Velaris.”

“’ _We_ ’.“ Mor’s eyes locked on Azriel, “After  _we_  defeat Hybern. None of us are falling in this war.”

Azriel stared ahead. He knew he shouldn’t say it but- “It’s stupid to think we’ll all survive.”

“We all survived the last one.”

 We were lucky-“

“And we’ll be lucky again.”

“You’re an optimist. I’m a realist.” Azriel snapped.

“No, you’re just an ass.” He opened his mouth to argue some more but Mor held up a hand and cut him off, “I can’t do anything to save Cassian, I can’t do anything to help Feyre, or even get you back on your feet.  _I can’t do anything_ , and all I have going for me right now is the thought that we’ll all make it out of this together and things can settle back down for once. Don’t you  _dare_  take that away.”

“Either Cassian survives and someone else dies, Cassian dies and our spirit is broken- which means we  _all_  die, or Feyre is slaughtered in Spring and Rhysand dies of a broken heart. Those are the  _only_ ends to this war I can see.” He voiced finally what his heart knew- there was no ‘happily ever after’ waiting for them. Rhysand’s return after Under the Mountain and Feyre’s induction into the Inner Circle were nothing more than one final blessing before the massacre began. He was  _sick_  of pretending otherwise.

Mor stormed around Azriel, ripping the cloth off his neck and snapping him with it as she left the room. The door closed with loud  _‘bang’_  that made him wince.

_You idiot, why did you have to say that to her?_

Azriel stood- but that foul mood had gripped him too strongly for him to simply shake it off. If Mor wanted to live in her pretend-world where everything had a happy ending, so be it. Azriel had to prepare his heart as best he could, and catering to her delusions helped no one.

So he let Mor go, picked up the washcloth, and stood to clean crusted fluid and dried blood from Cassian’s right wing. It was thick- swollen and cracked around the areas Madja had healed. Azriel tried to focus on the damage and his task at hand rather than his own anger or frustration. The least he could do was postpone which death shattered the Inner Circle. He would put all of his energy into helping Cassian back from the brink, or making sure Feyre made it back to Rhysand one more time. He’d give his own life gladly if it meant the others didn’t have to suffer…

Or if his own death could spare him from seeing one of them fall.

Mor’s voice filled his mind as he worked on carefully dabbing at both new and ruined membrane, “ _All I have going for me right now is the thought that we’ll all make it out of this together_ ”. Yeah, and all Azriel had was this precious time to prepare himself for the most profound loss any had experienced since Rhysand’s mother and sister were delivered to Velaris with their wings ripped off and their bodies mutilated.

Azriel and Madja were the only two alive who knew the entire story. The old Lord of Night was there too- he’d been the one to give the final order- but he didn’t have the presence of mind to tell Rhysand anything when they winnowed into Spring and cut the ruling family to ribbons.

If Mor knew what Azriel knew, she would realize there was no hope. Not really. The Cauldron let those two shining females die in the most horrific way it was possible to die. Fate wouldn’t be turned in their favor.

_Is it such a bad thing to die? At least then it will be quiet. We’ll see them again, and I can apologize to our mother directly for failing to protect her and her daughter. I won’t have to give two shits about what happens in Prythian. We can live in peace there._

No, dying wasn’t so bad. It was living with the loss that made Azriel’s heart go cold and his eyes sting. Only living filled him with horrific dread, seeing Mor or Rhysand or Feyre- even  _Amren_  weeping over a body. That was the only thing that scared him.

_Even so… what gave you the right to take hope away from her?_

Azriel sighed as he finished cleaning Cassian’s wing and set the bowls aside. He slumped into his chair and ran a hand through his hair. Now it was  _his_ voice that filled his ears- replaying the horrific scenarios he laid out for Mor after she  _begged_  him to let her hope for a better future. Cassian would have kicked his ass from Velaris to the human lands for hoisting his own doubts on Mor.

He ignored the sound of the door opening as Amren entered with Madja, but he could  _feel_  her glowering at the back of his head. Amren waved a hand and the cleaning bowls were sent off to the kitchen. She set a tray down with peppermint tea, a bowl of thick soup, and a chunk of fresh bread.

“Eat it, or I’ll give you the ass kicking you’re  _begging_  for.”

So, Amren knew what he’d done.

“I don’t know why I said that,” he shook his head as Madja walked around and began inspecting Cassian’s body.

Amren came to Azriel’s side, “I do. You’re having a hard time with all of this, but guess what? We  _all_  are- Mor in particular. Cassian was her lover, she’s always cared about him in a way that’s different than how she loves us. All you think about is what happened those first four year we were trapped here- when she broke and needed you to help build her up again. Did you forget the other forty-five years? When  _she_  was the one looking after  _us_? Mor is stronger than you’ve  _ever_  given her credit for- and when she  _tells you to stop_ , you go ahead and piss on whatever hope she’s managed to find.”

“I know,” Azriel took a deep breath. “I’ll go over to her house right now and apologize-“

“No you won’t,” Madja said.

“I’ll hire a litter if I have to, but I  _will_  go and apologize for-“

“I’m not worried about you overtaxing yourself,” Madja raised an eyebrow and looked at Azriel. “I’ll telling you that you need to leave Mor alone until you  _both_  cool down. Even if you were completely recovered, I would advise against going over there right now. Take your time and make that apology a proper one.”

“And if it  _isn’t_  the best apology ever made in any realm of the cosmos, I’ll end you myself.” Amren smacked him up the side of the head and pointed to the tea and soup, “I finished heating that for you after Mor stormed out. Eat it or die.”

Azriel ground his teeth against the command, but he obediently picked up his crust of bread and began to soak it in the thick soup. Madja cast him a  _slightly_  sympathetic look, but she focused on Cassian as she checked his pulse, the way his eyes adjusted to light when they were opened, and the color of his tongue.

Amren just kept glaring at Azriel, daring him to stop eating. It was a rare visit to Velaris that she now made. She was still happily hunting down Hybern’s men who had been stationed in Night- at least the ones that survived Feyre’s wrath when Rhysand was taken. When she was freshly blooded and readying for another hunt, it was best to do as you were told.

“Was there any reaction when Cassian’s pelvis was washed?” Madja looked to Azriel.

He shook his head and swallowed the bite of bread, “Rhysand said there was nothing. At what point does that become a worry?”

Amren snorted, “For Cassian? Even five  _seconds_  without an erection is probably a bad sign. His body is likely just enjoying the break from that perverted mind of his.”

Madja hid her smile expertly, but the mirth was clear in her eyes, “We worry when we need to. If I’m honest, I didn’t believe he’d survive two days, let alone a full week. My only worry at the moment is what happens when he wakes up- if he’ll be able to move his wings at all, and what that might mean for his overall recovery. I won’t risk waking him up until these wings are  _completely_  healed, but Azriel, I  _do_ believe he will wake.”

“Rhys didn’t say if he found Cassian in there yet,” Azriel murmured. Amren growled and he flinched slightly, “I’m not trying to be negative, I’m worried.”

“He is still in a very deep sleep. It’s possible he’s hidden himself in that mind somewhere and put up a wall to protect himself from the pain. Azriel- the time for you to worry is when  _I’m_  worried, and right now I’m actually optimistic.”

“I wish I could be too.” He said quietly.

Madja reached over Cassian to take Azriel’s hand and offer a comforting squeeze. Amren just waited silently for Azriel to finish his food, then took the cup and bowl away without another word.

“I’m going to start stitching his wing together, why don’t you go upstairs for a bit?” Madja dismissed Azriel with a nod towards the door. It was gruesome work- especially for an Illyrian to see. Their wings were incredibly sensitive, and even Rhysand had to look the other way as Madja’s needle hooked through membrane.

He was miserable and exhausted, but as he ate, Azriel knew what he could do to apologize for his words to Mor. It was something Rhys could kill him for, but still. Azriel needed to do it, especially after everything he’d said.

He walked upstairs slowly, saving as much energy as he could. Azriel opened the door to his room, almost wishing Nuala was there to talk him out of his plan. 

He had the spies in place to warn them quickly if Feyre fell under any suspicion whatsoever, but Azriel grabbed paper and pen to quickly write a note with instructions to activate three more spies within Summer.

After a moment’s hesitation, he added instructions to the bottom of the paper:

> _If things seem even the slightest bit strained between Feyre and Tamlin, get her out. Don’t wait for her to winnow or wait for him to leave her side. Just get her out as fast as you can._

He wrote the words carefully and clearly, leaving no room for interpretation or hesitation.

Azriel resisted writing more or giving any indication of what he was so afraid of. He and Madja had both sworn oaths to Rhysand’s father- and he had no choice but to take what he knew to the grave:

Rhysand’s mother and sister were still alive when they found them on the Illyrian steppes. 

They’d already gone mad from what they’d endured- Tamlin’s father made Rhysand’s mother watch as his sons did unspeakable things to her daughter- the most merciful being when they sawed off her wings.

Then they’d set upon the Lady of Night.

There was  no way to save them when they were brought back to the House of Wind. Tamlin’s father had laced the blade with a poison Madja couldn’t identify, and it was eating away at both of them in the most horrible of ways. Rhysand’s father himself was the one who ordered Madja to kill the females and end their suffering. The same cup with the same tea that Rhysand fed Cassian every four hours had delivered a fatal dose of sedatives to his mother and sister while Azriel stood witness.

 _That_  was why he couldn’t hold any hope for a happy ending.

 _That_  was why it was so hard to listen to Mor’s hopeful optimism.

How could there be anything good in a world where  _that_  was allowed to be the fate of a female who took in two poor Illyrian bastards and raised them with such warmth and love? If the Cauldron was merciful enough to leave his family be this time around, it wouldn’t have made that precocious, bratty little teenager suffer in such horrific and brutal ways before she was granted the embrace of death.

No, Azriel had no real hope that Cassian would wake. He could only wait for Madja to increase that dose of trefoil and let Cassian go forever.

Azriel took a deep, shuddering breath and ripped apart his corporeal form. He became shadow, and embraced the wall of pure agony that slammed into him as his body used more power than he had at his disposal. He could feel the magic eating at him, devouring his soul as Azriel sent his consciousness through the shadows and darkest corners of Prythian towards that beacon of shining Night in the far south.

Even if it killed him, Azriel would reclaim something to give Mor a bit of her hope back. Maybe if he could save her heart, Mor’s shining light could brighten some of the shadows around his own.

His vision flashed as he sped further and further away. He moved faster, using the agony and pain in his soul to fight back against the physical pain that came from pushing himself so hard so soon.

There- his target was near. Azriel reached out for it and prepared for the blast of magic that might very well leave permanent damage to his body. 

He needed to winnow across the entire length of Prythian.

Something wrenched inside of him, Azriel let out a violent scream of pain as every bone in his body began to splinter. That white flashed again in his eyes, a tang of blood filled his mouth, and Azriel let darkness claim him at last.

—

* * *

—

“AZRIEL!” Mor’s shout echoed through the black.

Something shook around him, “AZRIEL, OPEN YOUR EYES!”

The panic and fear there- it stirred something… Someone.

It stirred  _him_.

He was lost in himself- in his power. A darkness without beginning or end, the heart of the storm he unleashed in support of those he loved most.

“AZRIEL!”

The voice seemed to echo from all sides, but when she struck his cheek- that pain was specific. In that dark void, it showed him the way to the surface.

Azriel opened his eyes to the faces of two pale females with matching golden hair.

No- one and a half females.

No- just the one.

As his vision cleared, some of the fear in Mor’s eyes vanished and she began to cry. Azriel reached up with a bruised and aching arm to wipe away her tears, but Mor reared back and punched him in the nose.

Pain exploded across his face and Azriel whimpered.

“YOU  _FUCKING_  IDIOT!” Mor screamed, “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW WORRIED I WAS?! _”_ She put a finger to the side of Azriel’s face, healed the damage she’d done to his nose, then punched him again for good measure. “WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!”

“I had to get something for you,” he mumbled through the pain  _she_ inflicted as well as the pain of using his magic while he was so weak. His entire body was covered in welts and bruises- the physical manifestation of what he’d done to himself.

“NOTHING IS WORTH YOU DYING!” she snapped.

“I’m sorry about what I said.” His voice was rough and the words wouldn’t quite form, but he swallowed hard and tried his best. Mor put her hand on his throat and sent magic through him to heal what she could. “I can’t do anything for Cassian, but I promise I won’t let Feyre die. When the war comes- I’ll do whatever I can to keep them safe.”

“I want you to keep  _yourself_  safe too, you dumb bastard.”

Azriel ignored her, “No matter what, no matter how hard it is, and no matter what happens to me, I’ll bring her back before anything bad can happen.” His arm was twisted beneath him, and Azriel groaned against the pain as he shifted and dragged out what he’d gone looking for in Spring.

Not Feyre- he wasn’t strong enough to bring her and Rhys had made them all swear to let her complete her mission. But he’d retrieved something from a pile of rubbish headed for a bonfire that might be enough of a gesture to earn Mor’s forgiveness.

She took the mass of brown leather from his hand and shook it out. Her eyes softened the moment she realized what it was.

Feyre’s Illyrian leathers. The ones she’d worn to Hybern.

“You’re an idiot,” Mor said softly.

“I know… and I’m sorry.”

“I know.” She shook her head, “Azriel- I don’t just want  _them_  to survive. I want you to survive too- and you won’t if you keep pulling half-assed stunts like this.”

“I’m sorry,” it was all he could think to say. That fog covered most of his vision, and he knew it’d be  _days_  before his strength was even back where it had been that morning. But it was worth it. He’d only claimed a jacket, but somehow that little thing gave him confidence.

Mor helped Azriel up off the floor and onto the bed. He managed to tell her to take the note he’d written to Nuala before his eyes rolled up and sleep claimed him.

“You’re even dumber than Cassian sometimes.” Mor whispered. She looked down at Feyre’s jacket- still clutched in her hand- and sighed.

_What would Feyre do?_

She held the jacket against her chest and found Feyre’s scent through that of the trash that had been piled around the leather.

_Azriel and Cassian down, Rhysand out of his mind- what would Feyre do?_

The answer was obvious enough- hell, she’d already  _done_  it: Something stupid and reckless.

_There we have it._

Mor took a deep breath, spun on her heels, and winnowed to a quiet, deserted stretch of forest in which to lay her trap.

She was going to do the most ‘Feyre’ thing she could think of:

Capture a Suriel.


	3. Chapter 3

##  **Chapter 3**

 

Mor was woken by a hand on her shoulder…

Just not the one she was hoping for.

She’d taken to sleeping in a chair beside Cassian’s bed, always within easy reach if he woke up suddenly in the night. The world he’d last seen was one where Hybern triumphed and Tamlin seized Feyre, Mor didn’t want him waking without having a friend at his side.

Though, if Cassian woke Mor with a vicious scream of rage and a blast from one of his siphons, she wouldn’t hold it against him… at least then he’d be  _alive_.

It was a week since she’d decided to capture the Suriel, two weeks since the disastrous attack on Hybern… and twelve days since Nuala last heard Cassian’s spirit crying out for death.  _Both_  wraiths inspected him, they convinced their  _mother_  to visit on a full moon and bleed her dark magic into his body- but she reported only a hollow shell.

Even those red siphons were now dull, without even a drop of magic to light them.

He was gone, but his body survived. His heart beat, his wings healed bit by bit, and every now and then Rhys  _swore_  he saw a finger move- but Madja confirmed it was an involuntary motion, nothing more than a random pulse through the muscle. It was no sign of Cassian waking, and no promise of such.

Even so, Madja wasn’t ready to admit defeat, and came in every morning and evening to check Cassian’s pulse, temperature, tongue color, and eyes; she even kept careful measure of the volume of waste he was producing, looking for  _anything_  to fix.

Mor knew what else Madja had done during her visits. 

She just didn’t want to face the reality.

Her skin began to tingle on the tenth day as she prepared Cassian’s dose of trefoil. It was both sedative and paralytic- though only to his wings. The rest of his body should have been more or less unaffected, but something in that tea woke Mor’s instincts.

The next evening, that tingling sensation was stronger.

By day thirteen, her skin  _crawled_  as she measured out the dried leaves.

 _Truth_. That was Mor’s power- the ability to see pure, untarnished truth… and every fiber of her being was screaming ‘ _lie_ ’.

So, on the fourteenth night, Mor brewed  _herself_  a cup of the tea.

It was nothing more than peppermint, offset by jasmine and chamomile to mimic the  _scent_  of trefoil.

Bit by bit, Madja had been swapping out Cassian’s medicine for harmless tea. He should have woken  _days_  before. His magic should have returned and begun to smooth over new patches of membrane, to  _heal_  him, to at least put a glow in the siphons on his hands.

Yet he was still as the grave, the siphons remained empty, and both Rhysand and the wraiths found no sign of life in that husk of a body.

Mor had dropped her tea cup and gone straight to the High Temple of Velaris. She wasn’t even surprised to see Amren there, already praying. Or rather- Amren  _looked_  like she was praying. If anyone got close enough to hear her murmured words they would get a vivid (and horrifying) picture of what she planned to do to the gods of Prythian if they claimed Cassian now.

Ancient as she was- and considering all she’d seen in her eons- the pledge was no idle threat.

Mor had returned from the temple to take up her perch by Cassian’s side, as she did every night. This time though… she felt worse than she had when both Cassian  _and_  Azriel were laying in the sitting room. There was no more hope that Cassian might rally and pull through. He was a shell- and the male she’d claimed first as a lover, then as a friend was nothing more than an empty body.

So no, it was not Cassian’s hand on her shoulder that woke her on the fifteenth day since Hybern.

It was Rhysand’s.

“Here,” his voice was gentle as he handed Mor a steaming mug of strong coffee. He pulled a chair up to sit beside her, and reached out to take one of Cassian’s hands. His own lingered on Mor’s shoulder, as though he wasn’t sure if he should let her go.

Everything inside of her went cold at the darkness in his eyes… and the resignation on his face.

He almost looked… peaceful.

“No,” she whispered. “Whatever you’re going to say-  _no_.” The scent of cinnamon and vanilla wafted up from the mug- it was her favorite coffee blend from Winter. Considering how utterly unwelcome Rhys was in Winter, the fact that he’d gone there to find the coffee she now held  _just_  to bring her a gift-

-there could only be one reason for it.

The worst reason.

Rhysand looked at Cassian- at the sheer  _absence_  of his friend in that body- and Mor could have sworn his face aged a thousand years, “I didn’t go to any libraries in Day… I’ve been going to Dawn, to their hospitals. To hospitals in as many Courts as I could slip into undetected. I wanted to see how they are treating patients like Cassian- and what those patient’s minds sound like.”

He ran a shaking hand through his hair, “The ones who are being kept unconscious while they recover are shouting. They hear everything around them, and they are constantly trying to reassure their family and friends that they are still in there. Some replay the incident that led to their condition, but Mor- even the ones who haven’t woken in  _decades_  at least have a whisper of presence.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Mor closed her eyes, but she couldn’t block out the truth of Rhys’ words- the truth she’d already discovered for herself.

“He’s gone, Mor… I can’t- I don’t know what else we can do. His magic is gone, his body isn’t healing on its own, and his mind- he’s just  _gone_.” A silver tear fell down Rhysand’s cheek and broke Mor’s heart, “He fought for so long, he was brave and strong and kind, he-“ Rhys locked his jaw and stared hard at Cassian’s hand, still held in his. He bit his lip to keep it from trembling, and when he finally managed a deep breath, more tears slid down, “He deserves  _peace_.” His voice was barely a whisper.

Mor stared at her cousin for a long time- at the how his chin quivered and the way he tried to avoid looking at Cassian’s face.

“You’re giving up on him,” she slammed the mug onto a side table, spilling hot coffee across her hand. “I  _refuse_  to give up on him.”

“I raised a glamour and talked to doctors in Dawn-  _and_  I consulted with Madja too… if his mind was still there it’d be different but-“ a shockwave of ice ripped through Mor. She could almost hear Rhysand’s next words before he spoke, “-I’m sorry Mor… For his sake, it’s time to let him go.”

That was why Rhysand looked so pale and drawn, and why he looked like he’d found some measure of peace. The rage and frustration was gone as he exhausted every last possibility. Two weeks- he’d been going to Dawn for two weeks, just to try and find some treatment they’d missed. A sliver of hope they could hold tight… but there was none. Cassian was dead already- his body just hadn’t noticed it was abandoned.

“Mor, please don’t think I came to this decision lightly-“

“And don’t think I’ll agree to it lightly either.” Mor stood and jumped back as Rhys reached for her hand, “I’m  _not_  giving up on him.”

“Mor, please-“

She winnowed away without another word.

Every day for a week straight, Mor had gone out into the wilds of the Illyrian Steppes. Azriel was still too frail for more than short outings, so while he sat by Cassian’s bedside, she would stand in the woods as long as she dared, waiting for a Suriel that only Feyre had ever seen.

She’d brought rich cloaks, fine gowns, jewels, and the most valuable wines she could find. There were  _four_  raw chickens- with fresh ones brought daily. Every supposed “sure-fire” summoning technique was employed, every possession laid out around a satin trap that was  _never_  sprung.

Mor went to that clearing to hide from Rhysand- from the horrible truth he’d brought. She couldn’t help but feel that the moment she returned he would begin preparing for Cassian’s death- that moment when Cassian’s heart was  _deliberately_  stopped.

If she never went back to Velaris- if she never saw Cassian’s body again- then maybe Rhys wouldn’t do it. Maybe he’d wait as long as she would. A week? A month? A year? If he never found her, if he never forced her to stand by Cassian’s side and say farewell, then maybe a bit of life would have time to find its way back to him.

“Yes, that is  _precisely_  how it works. If you ignore it, everything will get better. Good job, Morrigan.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the voice that drifted through the trees- many and one, old and young, male and female- the voice of a species older than Prythian itself.

The voice of a Suriel.

Cassian’s salvation-

-or the ruin of hope.

The Suriel had its back to her as those rotted, withered hands brushed a speck of dust carefully from the lapel of an obsidian tunic- one of Rhysand’s favorites that Mor had stolen. Feyre had mentioned the Suriel seemed to like clothes- what was more valuable than those of the most powerful High Lord in history?

“Indeed, it is more precious than you can imagine, child.” That voice- rough and androgynous as it was- sparked something in Mor’s memory, like the echo of a dream long forgotten.

“I thought- I thought you would appreciate a soft trap instead of rope, it’s satin.” Her heart was pounding so hard she wasn’t surprised to see the Suriel’s fingers absentmindedly tapping along with its rhythm even as it studied Rhysand’s shirt. 

She had never seen a Suriel in her life- and this was the most important creature in the world to her.

“That is hardly true. Your friends are more important to you than I ever could be.” 

Mor had forgotten what Feyre said- that the Suriel seemed to be able to read those around it, “Right now,  _nothing_  is more important than you.”

“I’m honored,” The Suriel answered dryly.

“Then, can I ask  _two_  questions?”

“We’ll have to see just what your  _satin_  trap is worth… Do you plan on standing behind me all day? Are you afraid of what you’ll see?”

Mor swallowed hard and walked around to face the Suriel at last. It held still for her, as though it knew she would need a moment to adjust.

Feyre called it a ‘creature’, but Mor wasn’t as blissfully innocent as she was.

She had seen mummified corpses.

That wrinkled, leathery skin stretched far too tightly across bone, the opaque eyes, the way brown-black gums pulled back from the teeth- there was no mistaking it for anything else. It was a body… Human, judging by the ears. Maybe even Illyrian if the wings rotted away.

“I am older than Prythian, child.” The bones of the Suriel’s fingers clicked against one another as it continued to examine Rhysand’s tunic, “That means Illyrians and humans too.”

“Are you? Or is your species? I heard an old housewives tail once-  it said Suriel were the honored dead. Those who died with so many regrets that they crawled back from death itself to return to rotted bodies… but they bring with them the knowledge of the world beyond… Is it true?”

The Suriel clicked its tongue at her, “Is it true? When I say I am older than Prythian do I really mean ‘ _we_ ’? Keep up the good work and you will find out soon enough.”

“What do you-“ Mor’s heart sank. “Cassian…”

“You hold him too tightly. There is no soul in that body- but the door remains open. Who knows what might crawl in from the other side? There is dedication, love, and holding to hope until the end- but there is also insanity. If you don’t let him go, his spirit will go mad and the City of Starlight will find itself with a new monster. If you’re lucky, whatever claims his body will be devoured by the beast Cassian becomes before it takes more of those you love. Suriel are rather violent when we first awaken. Especially if we died violent deaths.”

 _If you don’t let him go_ … Mor hardly heard anything beyond those words.

“There has to be another option- a way to save him. Feyre said her blood saved Rhysand before-“

“-that trick only works for her mate. Tell Cassian’s it’s time to say goodbye.”

“I won’t lose him,” Mor summoned every last ounce of her power- let the Suriel feel the pure  _might_  in her that was greater than some High Lords. “ _Tell me how to save him_. Do you understand love? You must- you came back for something.”

The Suriel seemed utterly unimpressed with Mor’s display, “I came back because there was something I needed to do. Someone I needed to meet. I need to see them before I can go back where I came from.” That voice- it snagged at Mor’s memory once again.

 _“You’re in Velaris- somewhere safe, somewhere worthy of your light. Please Morrigan, you have to keep fighting so that you can see it.”_  A voice from another lifetime echoed back to Mor- a piece of her history she’d deliberately blocked out.

“Tell me how to save him,” Mor said, slightly breathless. A horrific panic was rising in her chest, drawn forth by the memory she refused to see. It pushed against the door to the vault she’d contained it in.

“ _Let him go_.” The Suriel hissed, frustrated. “His mate is holding on too tightly-“

“ _Hold on!”_  The voice echoing in Mor’s ears suddenly clarified,  _“Hold on just a little bit longer child! Please- don’t leave us! You’re in Velaris- somewhere safe, somewhere worthy of your light. Please Morrigan, you have to keep fighting so that you can see it._ ”

Mor’s eyes fell to the Suriel’s hands- those hands that held her wrists tightly as she’d thrashed. Back then, her wirsts were the only part of her body that wasn’t left broken or bleeding- the area where Kier’s manacles had been fixed. Her fingers had been shattered, her body was mutilated beyond recognition, and Madja needed Mor awake until her ravaged mind realized she was no longer in danger- until she found the strength to  _hold on_.

The female who’d held her as Madja worked-

“A Suriel is created when life returns to a rotting body… We are unnatural, unholy, and unable to just leave things be.” The Suriel’s voice softened as tears streamed down Mor’s cheeks. Her legs gave out and she fell to her knees in the grass, “My work is done soon, and I’m going to stay with an ancient friend far away before I go. Ask your question, Morrigan… then forget what you know of me. Don’t torture them with what you saw today.”

She tried desperately to compose herself, but the tears wouldn’t stop, “You came back to meet her- you always came when she called. You- all this time? All this time you were-“

The Suriel took a hand off of Rhysand’s tunic and brushed back the tears that fell on Mor’s cheeks, “I could not go to him. It would violate very fundamental rules of nature. Even being here now with you- ask your question, Mor… Before the Cauldron senses I violated its law.”

Mor swallowed and fought against the shaking in her hands, “H-how many of u-us will f-fall in the war?” She didn’t want to ask, not if it meant  _she_  would leave again… but she had to know.

The Suriel seemed almost relieved to hear the question at last, as though it always knew what she would ask, “Nothing is certain in the coming months, but there  _is_  a path through this crucible that you can walk together. Trust your family, protect one another, arm your seer with truth, and when Night falls, make sure Feyre Archeron is in his arms.”

Satisfied with what it told Mor all she needed to know, the Suriel stood and held Rhysand’s tunic to its nose, as though it were memorizing his scent- or remembering it. Mor didn’t know when it had freed itself from her snare- but it stood wholly unbound. 

Perhaps she’d never been caught at all.

“Wait-  _please_  don’t go,” Mor’s voice broke as the Suriel turned its back and she saw two wounds  _barely_  visible- the marks of wings that had been sawed off.

Proof of who stood before her.

The Suriel set Rhysand’s tunic down neatly on a pile of rich silks. Her long, boney fingers lingered on the fabric. She didn’t want to leave it- but she wouldn’t take it with her.

“Feyre recovered the ring-“ Mor blurted out. She was stalling, but she couldn’t help it. She wouldn’t let her go.

“I knew she would, that’s why I went to her each time she needed me… and why I will go to her once more, no matter what fate waits for me in those woods.”

“Don’t go- not again.  _Please_!”

The Suriel faced her one last time, and Mor could see the tremor in her chin, “Tell Cassian’s mate that it is time for her to  _let go_. And-“ it took several deep breaths, “- _and swear to me_  you will make sure Feyre is holding him as tightly as he once held her. Only then will you have all you ever wanted. Goodbye Morrigan… I love you.” 

The Suriel vanished into the trees, fleeing the Illyrian Steppes once and for all.

All Mor could do was stare at that tunic it held with such care as it picked away each individual speck of dust.

It was no wonder Feyre had such luck capturing the Suriel when all others failed. She’d  _wanted_  to be caught, just so she might meet that special child- the star that brightened Rhysand’s night. She wanted to meet the girl- then the  _female_ \- who was destined to sit by his side as equal in all things.

Rhysand’s mother crawled back from death itself just to meet her son’s mate.

—

* * *

—

Mor went to the Suriel looking for some way to save Cassian.

She found nothing but old grief and the promise of new loss.

Rhysand would fall on the battlefield against Hybern, his only hope of survival was Feyre but even then-

-he would fall.

Cassian though- he would fall much, much sooner.

 _Let him go_.

Would Rhys find it comforting to know he and his mother were in agreement? The certainty of what they now had to do to Cassian-  _for_ Cassian- didn’t make Mor feel any better. He would die, and while that might stop the creation of a new Suriel or prevent Cassian’s lost soul from turning into something dark and violent, it didn’t change the fact that he was her friend…

No, Cassian was more than just Mor’s friend.

He was the male she chose to bed, her only way to be free of Eris. He’d been her lover- seen and tasted every inch of her body- and after those initial months of awkwardness and yes, even passive hostility, they’d managed to grow close in an entirely different way. He knew her better than any friend, and never once did he treat her as anything lesser because of their past. He respected her, and he loved her as dearly as he loved him.

How could she lose that?

How could she lose the male who convinced her to train- to turn herself into a weapon against males like her father? How could she let go of someone who helped her take those fires that burned through every nerve in  her body and turn them into something she could wield to forge a new Prythian? Because of Cassian she’d fought in the War, because of him and the training he gave her she was more confident and more grounded than she’d ever been.

Mor couldn’t let Cassian go, he meant far too much for her to simply stand aside as Rhys or some priestess effectively killed him. He’d survived the brutality of his race when all others turned their backs on him. He’d survived his training, survived the War, survived  _fifty years_  of agony trapped in Velaris while everything Illyrian in his blood screamed for him to fight. He’d survived-

-he’d survived it all.

Her heart sank.

Cassian survived more brutality than even  _she’d_  known, and some days it was still difficult to force herself out of bed. Not only was he a mighty Illyrian commander, but he was a bastard shunned for his birth, a lesser fae shunned for his blood, and a member of the Night Court- shunned for sins more imaginary than real.

Yet he’d lived with a smile on his lips and laughter in his eyes.

The last anyone heard of that old soldier’s mind was him screaming, _begging_  for them to let him go. If he was in pain and there really was no path home-

Mor couldn’t let Cassian die…

… but maybe she could let him have his hard-earned rest.

It wasn’t abandoning or giving up on him- it was the only way they could respect the horrors he’d been through, and the centuries of friendship and love he’d offered to all who were worthy.

Tears ran down Mor’s cheeks until her eyes at last dried and there was nothing left but resignation.

That was when he came.

“Mor?” Azriel stood a respectful distance away, giving her as much space as she needed to come to terms with what waited in Velaris. “I saw you from the townhouse… do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” she whispered. “I’ll go along with it but… no.” She couldn’t talk about it, and she wouldn’t be able to for a long,  _long_  time.

Azriel sat down beside Mor on the balcony and pulled her to tip gently on his shoulder. He was winded- he absolutely was  _not_ supposed to fly yet- but standing on the roof of the townhouse, trying to breathe through the weight on his heart, he’d looked up at the House of Wind and seen her sitting up there alone.

Mor wasn’t even sure when she’d gone back to Velaris, or how she got from the gates of the House of Wind- the only part she could winnow to- all the way up to the balcony nearest the Archeron rooms.

Some piece of her had realized that it was time to let Cassian rest.

As the Suriel told Mor- his  _mate_  had to let go along with the rest of them. 

“Feyre should be here,” Mor whispered.

Azriel rested his cheek on Mor’s head, offering as much comfort as he could. Rhys had been debating with himself for  _days_  if Feyre should be retrieved from Spring or not. Would she ever forgive him for letting Cassian die without her there?

It was Azriel who convinced him to leave Feyre be. From a cold, calculating perspective they  _needed_  the information on Hybern’s attack strategy to prevent even more from falling in battle. What Feyre might find in Spring before she chose to return could very well be the key to saving Mor’s life, or even Azriel’s one day.

Rhysand agreed with Azriel’s assessment… and the High Lord felt every inch the monster Mor had seen him as that morning. He couldn’t stand the thought of Feyre looking at him like that as he ended whatever shadow of life was in Cassian’s body.

“Madja and the Priestess are there, if you’d like to talk to either of them. They’re with Rhysand now, helping him make peace with all of this.” Azriel’s voice was soft. “They won’t do anything until we  _all_  say we’re ready. When we let him go, he’ll be surrounded by his family. Rhys will preserve him until Feyre returns, then Velaris will grant him a funeral befitting a-“ a soft sound escaped from Azriel- a sob, “-a hero.”

Mor wiped at the tears staining her own cheeks and sat up, “I’ll be down in a bit. There’s something I need to do first.”

Azriel hid his disappointment as best he could. Part of this was about him comforting a friend- but even though it was too difficult for him to ever say outright,  _Azriel_  needed to share his grief too. He needed a shoulder to lean on as much as she did- but both of them were stretched far too thin to offer much strength to the other.

Mor waited for Azriel to stand as well before she pulled him into a tight hug, both an apology for her brusqueness and the only comfort she could offer. When she pulled away and entered the House of Wind, Azriel waited until the doors closed before jumping off the edge of the balcony and gliding back towards the townhouse on exhausted wings.

Part of Mor felt wretched for sending Azriel off so soon when he was so obviously in need of a friend, but she didn’t know what else to do. There would be time before the end to make it up to Azriel…

She just had to endure Nesta Archeron first.

Mor walked through the House, her pace quickening with every passing second. The Suriel said everyone had to let him go- but as far as Nesta had been told, Cassian was still fighting for his life.

Before she was even sure what she would say, Mor knocked on the door to the Archeron chambers.

Maybe she’d had some witty snipe prepared for the first victim of the day, but when Nesta opened those golden doors and took in the sight of Mor- uncharacteristically disheveled, pale, and with red bags beneath her tear-stained eyes- the scowl eased back from her face and she stepped aside, giving Mor silent permission to enter.

“Come,” Nesta had been practicing walking as Fae, but she still kept her movements slow as she led Mor from the door to a little tea table. 

That entire first week of their confinement at the House of Wind, Nesta refused to open the curtains as though she were denying the existence of Prythian beyond. Now the windows were open, and Elain sat beside one to stare vacantly out across the mountains.

Mor was guided to a red velvet chair, where she slumped without a word as Nesta quickly poured two strong cups of tea. With another glance at Mor’s face, she picked up a crystal decanter and added some whiskey that was likely older than her grandmother.

“Here,” when she handed the tea to Mor, she did so with more care than the female knew Nesta possessed.

It was a testament to the Archeron. As much as she hated her circumstances, and as much as she hated the fae her youngest sister associated with, she could see how much pain Mor was in- and so she cared for her. She would not pick a fight with Mor while she was already defeated by the world outside.

“Cassian is-“ Mor’s throat tightened unbearably. She took a long drink of her tea-and-whiskey. It was meant to help ease the agony in her heart, but all it did was make Mor think about Cassian.

He’d been the one to introduce her to spiked tea. If you let him, he would go on for  _hours_  about what liquor blended best with which tea.

“He’s gone, isn’t he?” Nesta’s hands were in her lap, but Mor could tell from the tension in the girl’s arms that she was white-knuckled beneath the table.

 _Not yet, but he won’t be here much longer_.

She couldn’t say it. It was one thing to accept it, to listen to Azriel speak so openly about letting go, but Nesta was a stranger. She was being kind for once- but she wasn’t part of their family. Besides- a sliver of pity entered Mor’s heart for Rhysand, forced to make such a horrific decision and then play the enemy to tell  _both_  her and Azriel it was time.

So she took the burden this time and lied.

“Yes.” Mor’s chin quivered, “This morning.”

Nesta- the female who hated everyone on the planet save Elain- looked at Mor with only carefully veiled sorrow in her eyes, “I’m sorry for your loss.” She didn’t know how to lie as a fae yet, and Mor could almost see Nesta’s stone heart crack.

Mor couldn’t speak again.

“He seemed like a good man-  _male_ ,” Nesta offered. “A bit rakish, but… kind, beneath it all.”

“He is,” Mor whispered. She swallowed hard before correcting herself, “ _-was_.”

Her words felt poisonous and entirely  _wrong_ \- to speak of Cassian as though he were gone. It wasn’t just the lie, it was the mere concept of having to refer to him in past tense. It was that her brother and best friend would very soon be a ‘ _was’,_ no longer an ‘ _is_ ’.

“It was- I mean… Was it peaceful?” Nesta’s voice was quiet, she was reining in her emotions as best she could but Mor could tell she wanted desperately to wake up from this nightmare.

“No. His last conscious moments were pain and fear and-“ tears fell again, and Mor quickly wiped them away. “No… Nothing about that was peaceful… but now it doesn’t matter. Now he’s somewhere good. He’s warm and happy and with his mother and-“ a bit of a laugh escaped from Mor as a new thought occurred to her, “-and Rhys’ sister is there.”

Mor looked out at Velaris below and lost herself in the memory, “She and Cassian- he loved play-fighting with her. We were all in our thirties when she was born, so Cassian was as much her brother as Rhysand. They- they turned this entire House into two rival camps once and made the servants pick sides. Their little war lasted for a full  _week_  before peace talks began- all that was started by a debate on the merits of pillow versus blanket forts! He was forty-three, a child, and she was still in infancy, only twelve. She was the little brother he never had.”

Nesta listened to the little story and found a soft smile touching her lips, even though she was blinking hard to fight back her tears, “Were they- could they have been mates?”

She thought it was a reasonable question, but Mor managed more of a laugh this time, “ _Cauldron_  no. Illyrians aren’t allowed to be children. Their training begins at ten, but before that they serve the camp. There are few games, and something like  _fun_  isn’t allowed. To this day he-“ the light dimmed in Mor’s eyes again and she looked down. 

Not ‘to this day’. This day Cassian was suffering. This day he would die.

“He still played with them?” Nesta prompted.

“Yeah,” that glow faded from Mor completely. “Catch, wrestling, races- he always lets them win but… He never turned down anyone who needed a friend to play with. Rhysand’s sister was so lonely, growing up with her father treating her as some valuable piece on a chessboard while the males were off training. She had me- I’ve lived in Velaris since I was eighteen,” since her father skinned her alive for sleeping with Cassian, “I tried to be a big sister for her… but Cassian was always better around children than I am.”

Silence stretched around them. Eventually, Nesta nudged Mor’s forgotten tea cup closer to her, “Tell me more stories, please.”

Nesta was helping her, in the only way that sometimes-viper knew how. She was giving Mor a chance to remember only the happy moments with Cassian, a welcome reprieve from grief and anguish. 

Mor stayed for another cup as Nesta gently prompted her to share more and more stories, then offered her another refill (without alcohol this time). Nesta was as distant as she could be, and it was by no means a marker of change in her cold exterior, but she showed a capacity for kindness that Mor would never have thought possible.

Only then, only that one time, did Mor look at Nesta Archeron and see a female worthy enough to be Cassian’s mate.

—

* * *

—

Though it was barely four in the afternoon when Mor left the House of Wind and returned to the Townhouse, the streets outside were silent. No children played, no couples passed the High Lord’s house on their stroll, and not even merchants peddling pre-dinner sweets to children called out. It was as if that one street held its breath out of respect for what was about to happen.

They’d all seen Madja arrive with the priestess.

Knowing how deeply the people of Velaris loved Cassian, and the way gossip spread through the city like wildfire, Mor had a feeling everyone already knew the end had arrived.

She winnowed from the entryway at the House of Wind straight to the townhouse foyer. Today the house had apparently been inundated with white roses, carnations, and lilies.

If there was any doubt in Mor’s mind that the people knew Cassian would die, those white flowers chased it away.

Madja came out of the dining room in an instant, “Mor? Can we speak?” A temple priestess came to stand by Madja, but did not crowd the healer and offered only a comforting, sad smile. She exuded sincerity and sympathy in equal measures.

“No… I’ve come to terms with this, but please- just… just no.” She felt a sick dread in her heart. Mor both needed to see Cassian and wanted nothing more than to run screaming from the house.

“I understand,” the priestess said in a soft, soothing voice. “Know that if you change your mind now- or even after the prayers- I will stop and listen. No matter when you wish to speak with me, I will always be available to you, Lady Morrigan.”

Mor only nodded.

“The High Lord and Azriel are with him now. Why don’t you go sit with them? We’ll stay out here until called.”

Again, she could only nod.

It felt like every nightmare she’d ever had, that walk to Cassian’s room.

 Everything moved too slowly, it was as if Mor was trying to push her way through a swamp. Her footsteps took far too much effort, each breath was too loud in her ears, and her vision blurred as those damned tears started again. Her dizziness had little to do with the fact that she hadn’t eaten all day, and it couldn’t be blamed on the alcohol either.

This was to be the worst moment of her life. What Kier did to her- she’d recovered, she’d  _survived_. Cassian’s death wouldn’t end with him waking back up and cracking some dumb joke.

Before she was ready and what felt like years after she started the walk down the hall, Mor’s hand was on the doorknob.

When the door opened though, all the fear and strain vanished as Mor saw Rhysand and Amren on one side of Cassian’s body with Azriel on the other. The males each held one of Cassian’s hands as they too found a way to accept what was coming. Whatever Amren felt- she masked it far too well.

Seeing Cassian like that- gone and lost already- somehow it made time flow properly, and her breath was no longer louder than a scream.

When she looked at him on that bed, it just felt… right.

They weren’t killing him.

They weren’t abandoning him.

They were letting him go on to something happier.

Something better.

They were sending their friend off to rest.

It was a death Cassian would never have thought he’d be granted- not screaming on a battlefield, but laying on a bed in Velaris, surrounded by family.

Mor didn’t think about how he ended up here or what happened two weeks ago. She didn’t think about her earlier words to Nesta- saying his death was not peaceful at all… She only thought about Cassian, and the mocking warmth he brought into her life every single day.

Rhys looked up at her, a question too painful to ask in his eyes.

Mor nodded, and went to stand by Azriel.

Madja and the priestess entered moments later, and as they did, Nuala and Cerridwen appeared in the darkest corner of the room to lend their own support and say their own farewells.

“Cassian, my brother… die with honor and dignity, knowing you served your High Lord more heroically than any before you.” Rhysand muttered the old blessing as he lifted Cassian’s sheathed sword and laid it across his chest. Both he and Azriel folded Cassian’s hands over the hilt of the sword, that he may carry it with him into the next life.

The priestess raised her arms to begin the final blessings. Everyone bowed their heads and closed their eyes as she spoke- even Amren. Only at Cassian’s death would she show reverence to the traditions of Prythian, “Cauldron save you. Mother hold you…”

Mor stopped hearing her words as that awful sense of  _wrong_  settled over her again. Too soon the end would come, but it also felt as though the priestess’ words were somehow too slow. 

Dread threatened to cripple her and break her resolve.

Azriel’s cold hand found hers. There was no strength in his grip as he squeezed her fingers, but Mor appreciated it more than words would ever express. She reached down with her own hand to warm his and offer a bit of strength in return.

“…Fear no evil. Feel no pain. Go, and enter eternity.” The priestess finished the first prayer and moved on to the Illyrian blessing. 

When that was finished, Rhys would let them each say goodbye once more before he used his power to destroy what life lingered in Cassian. It would be quick and painless, but only for the one who was dying. For the rest of them it would be a Hell they would never escape.

Mor’s resolve flickered and she grabbed Azriel’s hand tighter. She stroked the back of it, trying to offer him the comfort she needed for herself. He didn’t release her hand as her fingers traced over the smooth skin of-

s-smooth skin?

Mor began to tremble.

The priestess continued her prayer, but Mor stroked the back of that hand again, feeling further up towards the wrist.

Smooth skin.

And the angle- Azriel would have to be laying down.

Mor was shaking as she opened her eyes and looked at the hand that found its way into hers.

At the fingers that were still gently squeezing.

At the arm that was raised just barely off the bed.

Mor followed that arm up to the shoulder, to the neck, to the head. She looked into those warm, hazel eyes that were unfocused, but  _undeniably_  alert.

A shuddering sob broke the holy silence in the room. Rhysand, Azriel, and Amren opened their eyes to check on Mor- then followed her gaze down.

Azriel’s cry was no more than a high whimper when Cassian’s eyes met his.

The priestess stopped her prayer as soon as she realized what was happening.

Cassian looked at everyone in turn, then down at the Illyrian sword on his chest.

“I just woke up,” he managed to turn the hilt of the sword towards Rhysand, “go kill it is yourself, princess.” His voice was weak and rough, but there was a flicker of that mischief there again.

His siphons slowly began to glow as magic began to seep back into that ravaged body, and when Rhys- sure he must be hallucinating- reached for Cassian’s mind, he felt his brother filling the void bit by bit.

Rhys loosed a sob of his own and quickly threw himself down to embrace Cassian, that snarky, obnoxious little asshole he was blessed to call ‘brother’.

“Never scare us like that again,” Rhys whispered as Mor pushed him out of the way to bury her face in Cassian’s chest.

“I love you too, prick.” Cassian smoothed Mor’s hair and looked up at Azriel, paralyzed. “You can blink, I won’t disappear.”

Azriel took the hand from Mor’s head and held it tight in his. He felt the strength returning and Cassian squeezed his hand in response.

When Mor moved, still sobbing, Azriel bent down to embrace his brother just as Rhys had. Even  _Amren_  hastily wiped at the moisture in her eyes before offering Cassian a hug of her own.

She wouldn’t have to slaughter the Gods of Prythian. At least, not tonight.

—

* * *

—

**Two Weeks Ago**

There was nothing in Cassian’s world but pain, desperation, and agony.

His wings were shattered, he felt more than any living creature should be  _allowed_ to feel, and yet that torment never ended. It was as if every nerve in his body were melting and burning- but didn’t have the decency to just  _die_.

He was trapped in darkness, surrounded by only the sounds of his own wretched screaming. 

There had been a path through it all once- a path that ended in an evergreen land of peace and love. He could feel his mother on the other side, waiting to be reunited with the child she’d loved and protected as long as she was able. A female stood beside her- his sister in all but blood, ready to organize the camps of honored dead into armies for their next pillow-versus-blanket-fort war.

But before he could go to them, that path vanished.

He felt something wrap around him, a presence that both held him captive and protected him.

Years passed- or at least that was how it seemed- and bit by bit the presence chased away his pain. It was something warm- something he instinctively knew could be cold as ice if it chose. Soft and kind and genuine- yet only when given the chance.

That presence was his home, and to Cassian it became something greater than the world at the end of that path. It made him  _want_  to stay, to hold on and see what that miracle might bring.

But as he lost all semblance of time in the endless dark, he became lost.

The presence that held him was all consuming, as though it were preventing him from finding any escape to that other world. He couldn’t figure out how to tell it he would return to his home- his body- and endure any pain to find that which held him tight in the living world. 

He wasn’t leaving, he was  _staying_.

But it wouldn’t let him go.

 _She_  wouldn’t let him go.

Not until Mor told her there was nothing left to hold on to.

It was like swimming up from the deepest ocean. Cassian found himself drowning suddenly, and he swam with everything in his heart and soul for that glimmering light far above.

His eyes opened slowly upon his own deathbed service.

He saw Mor trembling, her composure cracking.

He reached out, and felt himself click into place within his body at last. The endless, ageless dark behind him faded away like morning fog, and Cassian’s spirit settled into his legs, his arms, his chest, and his wings.

Against all odds, against all hope, Cassian came home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 

Cassian had no idea what woke him.

It was the middle of the night, he was alone, and not a single sound drifted through the townhouse. No sense of danger pricked at his mind, and he was more inclined to settle back into the blankets than anything.

Then he felt it.

A humming in the muscles of his back and thighs, rapidly spreading into his wings. The membrane began to quiver. It was an itch gaining force, very nearly approaching the electric buzz of a thunderstorm.

Cassian whimpered in anticipation, and though he remained laying on his back, he quickly curled his knees up to his chest. The hum grew in strength, and a ripple ran through the muscle. He straightened his legs before pulling them up again. 

Madja thought flexing the muscles in the earliest stages would help, and he was desperate to stop it before that feeling in his back turned into something hard and burning.

But he couldn’t flex his wings, so the battle was lost long before it even began.

Tighter and tighter that sensation in his back and wings grew, until Cassian had to bite his lips against the agony. It felt like muscle was ripping away from bone- a deeper pain than when Hybern’s magic tore through him.

All he could do was endure the cramp.

Madja had warned Cassian that they were inevitable in this early stage of healing, but he still wasn’t prepared for the sheer strength of the spasms passing through his outstretched wings. It felt as though the bones were shattering from the inside outwards, and ripping everything around them to shreds in the process.

Even through the spasms and cramps, Cassian tried to use his suffering to some advantage. Their attack on Hybern had been a disaster, that was obvious enough, but there were pieces missing from his memory. Entire moments simply  _gone_  where pain and agony had blinded him. He felt a sick fear in his heart- and a guilty sort of relief. Cassian just couldn’t remember why.

Amren was the only one he knew wouldn’t coddle him, so he’d sent the others away and asked her to tell him what she’d heard of their raid. Feyre was with Tamlin, Cassian vaguely remembered that part. Elain and Nesta were up at the House of Wind, but-

Amren had paused.

They were alive and healthy but-

-but what?

Cassian stopped fighting the pain in his back and wings and instead threw himself  _into_  the fire. He used the ravage of his senses to throw his mind back to that raid of Hybern’s castle. Though this agony was something different, it linked him to that memory.

Nesta’s confusion and fear, that familiar-yet-alien  _otherness_  that radiated from her- it hit Cassian like a blow. 

What happened? Did the mighty little human reveal a power her kind weren’t meant to possess? And why, whenever he thought of Nesta, did Cassian remember the force that kept his spirit from passing on?

The pain in Cassian’s body began to fade as the cramp passed, taking his memory back with it. He knew it would be hours before the warning edge of it faded entirely. Cassian resisted the urge to stretch his wings in the aftermath- that was almost certain to lead to another wave of cramping.

Instead, he focused on slowly pulling his wings towards his body. They didn’t move like they had before the ruin, too many muscles had to be regrown. It would be a long battle to rebuild his strength and when the wings were about halfway closed he couldn’t move them at all. The new muscle didn’t know how to shift, and his body couldn’t figure out how to tell it.

Cassian carefully rolled to one side and grabbed at the edge of his wing. He had to roll a little further than he was braced for, and a cautionary ripple of pain flashed through the muscle. When he was sure another cramp wasn’t about to hit, Cassian found the edge of a wide leather strap on the bed and began to carefully tie the top section of his wing closed.

The straps were Azriel’s idea, a way to help Cassian carry his wings so that he would be able to go to the bathroom alone. A bit of independence- a thin veil of normalcy- made Cassian feel a bit like his old self. True, Illyrian males could be driven insane by having their wings bound, but when he weighed it against the idea of a  _bedpan_ , it was a risk well worth taking.

Besides, Azriel spent his childhood bound and unable to open his wings more than a few feet. Complaining would have felt… cruel.

Cassian tied off the bottom of his wings before rolling over to slide sideways off the bed and onto his feet. The awkward maneuver was necessary with his barely-mobile wings- Cassian couldn’t sit on any bed or low couch that required him to adjust their mass.

_Do I want to go to the bathroom?_

_No._

_Kitchen?_

_No._

_Sitting room?_

_… Why yes, a strong cup of coffee sounds perfect._

“Nuala? Are you the one on watch tonight?” He knew Azriel too well to believe he was ever truly alone.

“She’s visiting our mother,” Cerridwen formed from the shadows in the corner of the room, “Where are you going to convince me to take you?” A mix of humor and resignation lit her pale face.

“I just want to sit in my favorite chair with a nice, hot cup of coffee and look out at the city. That’s all. It’s a perfectly innocent request.”

“Your favorite chair is at the House of Wind,” she raised an eyebrow.

Cassian feigned surprise, “Is it? Oh yes, you’re right. Well, obviously I can’t fly and even right now I’m  _really_  concentrating on  _not_  tipping over, so-“

“So the stairs are out of the question if you tried to sneak up there yourself and you need me to transport you.” Cerridwen sighed. Only around Cassian was she so informal, a mark of their long friendship.

“Please?”

She crossed the room with another sigh and Cassian smiled. “This will be unpleasant, which you deserve considering how angry Rhysand and Madja will be when they realize you’re ignoring the order for bedrest.”

Cassian smiled and reached out as best he could for Cerridwen’s hand. It was pure hell to try and stand with the weight of his wings so soon after a cramp, and he’d only been conscious for a couple of days. His body was incredibly weak still, which Cerridwen was well aware of.

“I’ll tell them you put up a good fight,” Cassian promised.

“Say you cried.”

“Deal.”

Cerridwen smiled at Cassian’s quick agreement and took his hand. 

Traveling as a wraith did… even Azriel had only tried it once in the three hundred years he’d known the twins. It wasn’t like winnowing, it was something more primordial than any magic they knew, an escaped bit of the darkness and decay between worlds. It was the icy kiss of a tomb, the pure silence that was uninterrupted by breath or heartbeat, it was- comforting.

Cassian sighed as the world around them shifted and the House of Wind came into focus. Normally, traveling the way of a wraith left him cold and  _off_  for days. This time though it felt… pleasant. Familiar somehow. He’d’ been wrapped tight in the Shadow of Death long enough that it no longer scared him or left a chill in his bones.

Though, it  _did_  take a toll on his body.

Cerridwen supported Cassian as she helped him to a plush armchair- his favorite in the House of Wind. It was down the hall from the dining room, in an alcove closed in by silk curtains and potted plants. A bookshelf ran along one wall, filled over the years with Cassian’s favorites. It afforded a perfect view of Velaris below, was close enough to the balcony for him to monitor the comings and goings of Rhys and Azriel, and- by complete coincidence- it sat at just the right angle for him to monitor the Archeron chambers.

“I’ll have the night chef send up a tray of snacks with your coffee,” Cerridwen said as she carefully angled Cassian so that his wings slid into channels on the chair when he sat. “Do you want them unbound?”

“Is Azriel’s brace still here?” Cassian asked.

Cerridwen had only heard of the device. She frowned, “I’ll ask.”

“Thank you,” he waited until she vanished to slump in the chair completely. Weariness tugged at his heart, but the thought of spending another minute in bed was pure hell. He needed the mountain air of the House of Wind. It soothed his soul and brought him no end of comfort.

Creating a faelight or willing flame to the candles was simple enough magic, but Cassian chose to remain bathed in only shadows and moonlight. If Rhys or Az found out he was missing they would naturally check the House of Wind first, but Cassian didn’t feel like advertising his precise location with a light. If they were to disturb his peace, he’d make them work for it.

The night chef brought him a tray of cinnamon-apple tarts and blueberry scones to have with his coffee. He was a kind male, and beamed with unbridled joy to see Cassian once more. He was completely mute, but he held Cassian’s hand with an iron grip and moved the snacks closer, just in case the lad couldn’t reach. It was also a silent command he liked to give all members of the Inner Circle-

_You’re too thin. Eat._

“I will, thank you.”

The male nodded, smiled again, and returned to the kitchen. Cerridwen had been waiting for his departure and appeared soon after with the brace.

When Azriel was freed from his father’s cage and brought to Devlin’s camp to train, his wings had been bowed and deformed by the too-small confines of his prison. An Illyrian healer managed to straighten the bone back out as a young Rhysand held Azriel’s mind and protected the camp from the wrath of an untrained shadowsinger. 

That wasn’t the end of Azriel’s problems though, and as he grew there were a few more complications which only Madja could handle. As Azriel recuperated from her surgeries and his wings were numbed, Rhysand had created a brace that gave him  _some_  freedom to sit instead of laying about all day.

It consisted of a rich blue velvet cushion that was angled to match the tilt of wings at rest. Straps fixed the brace to the back of Cassian’s chair, and a series of cushions were clipped to hidden hooks in the velvet to create a near-perfect outline of Cassian’s wings (which held them up off the ground).

Once everything was connected, Azriel had sworn it was even more comfortable than laying down. It was now  _centuries_  since the brace had been buried in storage, it was possible no one would have even remembered its existence.

Cerridwen helped fix him into place as gently as possible. It took the weight off his neck and shoulders, and could potentially prevent the cramps that racked through his back and hips. Going to the washroom would require a little maneuvering on his part, but for the most part he could sit unencumbered.

“Thank you,” Cassian smiled and picked up his mug, “join me? Or would you rather go back to the townhouse?”

“You haven’t had a moment to yourself yet, consider it my gift to you.” Cerridwen smiled. She’d seen something in the House as she sought out the brace, and she didn’t want to be nearby when  _that_  wanderer found him.

Silence filled the House with Cerridwen’s departure, but Cassian reveled in it.

 He’d had plenty of silence in the townhouse, true, but there was something heavy in it there, a secret that the others were fighting to keep- one having to do with Feyre. She certainly wasn’t dead, but Mor, Azriel, and even  _Amren_  seemed to be annoyed with Rhysand. 

That kind of silence was anything  _but_  quiet.

He enjoyed a difference type of peace as he sipped his coffee and ate food Madja probably wouldn’t have approved of so early in his healing. Cassian remembered being lost in the darkness between life and death, and as he sat looking out at Velaris- and at the windows of the Archeron chambers- he let his mind go back to the memory of the presence that kept him from passing on. It was a home he had yet to find, but one that was all too near. He felt a thread between his soul and that comforting shield, and an echo of sadness from the far side- a loss it could hardly bear.

A soft, neat  _click_  on the floor caught Cassian’s ear. It was slow, rhythmic, and listless somehow. When he heard the whisper of skirts on stone, Cassian refilled his cup and dared wake his magic enough to summon a second.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Cassian made sure his voice was as smooth and deep as he could get away with. It was both a bedroom whisper and an invitation for play- exactly the kind of tone she would expect from him.

 _He_ , however, wasn’t prepared for the new Nesta that came around the corner.

Human, she’d been the most beautiful woman  _or_  female he’d ever laid eyes on. As High Fae, she stole the very breath from his lungs. Nesta was a vision, too overwhelmingly perfect to be real, and when her steel-blue eyes met his, he knew he could never look away, lest his heart rip in two.

She wore a simple black linen dress that just barely touched the floor. High-necked, basic, conservative. A dress to be worn in mourning, or out of respect for those who mourned. Her hair was tied off in a bun that showed off her long, delicate neck and high cheekbones. It hid most of her fae ears, but the hair had shifted since she last checked her appearance and the tips poked out ever so slightly.

When she saw Cassian sitting in the moonlight, pouring a mug of coffee for her, Nesta’s eyes flickered with pain and confusion that she could not quite veil. She blinked several times before drawing a long, slow breath.

“Why are you here?” Her voice wasn’t sharp or hard, it was almost… sad.

“Because I couldn’t sleep either. Join me?”

Nesta walked slowly towards the vacant seat. She loked like she was about to say something, but then Cassian summoned a gentle faelight to illuminate the alcove. 

Her eyes took in the sick pallor of his skin first, then the bags beneath his eyes, the sagging flesh on his bones that marked just how much weight he’d lost over the past two weeks, and finally those keen blue eyes noticed his wings- bound and braced behind him.

Confusion flickered once again before a snarl began to curl the side of her face. The same presence that held Cassian back from death flooded the room- only much,  _much_  stronger than he thought possible. It had the power to destroy  _thousands_ \- to wipe them from existence or hold them to life at her will.

Nesta forced her snarl down and that sense of  _other_  faded back. She was preserving her wrath for someone else- and Cassian had a feeling that meant either Rhysand or Mor was in danger.

“So, you’ve recovered?” her words were clipped as she accepted the coffee.

“I’m heading in that direction. I’ve only been awake for a couple of days, but I wanted to see you.”

“And it took two days for you to remember where this House was?”

Oh, she was  _mad_ , “Actually, it took two days to get myself out of bed. I came here as soon as I could guilt someone into bringing me.”

“Guilt is a popular tool in this Court.”

Cassian waited until she took a drink of her coffee, hardly daring to even look at him anymore. That snarl kept threatening to return, it quivered along the side of her nose. Her rage told him all he needed to know about how she was doing, and the way she’d looked at him when he was sitting in the moonlight-

-as though he were a ghost.

As though someone had  _told_  her he was a ghost.

“Before I woke up… my condition wasn’t encouraging. They’d given up- I don’t blame them for it, I would make the same call, but- Nesta, I woke surrounded by my friends with a priestess performing last rights. If someone told you I was gone-“ he swallowed hard and Nesta did the same, “that was what they truly believed at the time.”

“Yes, well, I’m just disappointed.  To see you, I mean. For the  _last two days_ , I thought this Court had become a little more tolerable.” Her snapping reply revealed more than she meant to. She was angry- not only at whoever told her that Cassian was dead, but at  _everyone_  for not telling her otherwise in the days since he woke. Even Nuala and Cerridwen were in trouble now.

Two days. Why didn’t he think to send word sooner?

Well… because he didn’t know  _how_  to.

‘ _Hi Nesta, glad to hear you were dragged from your home, had Cauldron-knows what done to you by Hybern’s men, and were forced to change species against your will, even though I swore I would always protect you. By the way, you aren’t allowed to be angry at me for being a failure and a liar because I was dying and still have trouble wiping my own ass solo. I’m getting better now, which I’m sure you care about on top of everything else you and your sister have been through. Have a nice week!’_

Cassian swallowed his self-loathing and sighed, “Are you- how is Elain?”

Nesta’s knuckles were white as she gripped the mug. Her withering gaze rested on the steam from the carafe. After a while, she decided to answer, “Some days I wonder if she truly died in that place.” A shiver slid through Nesta’s bones, “Elain is most certainly  _not_  doing well, but it’s going to be alright. Rhysand will find a way to undo this.”

“I’m sorry Nesta, but as your-“ he checked himself before the word ‘friend’ slid past his lips and enraged her, “-I just mean to say that you should brace yourself for the possibility that… that this is the new normal.”

“What do you know? You’re dead.” 

“Dead, and a liar.” Cassian’s body felt… heavy. “I swore that I would protect you, and I hardly made it through the door. You needed me to keep my word, I  _should_  have been there before Hybern’s people even came. I should have anticipated that Tamlin would turn against Prythian. I’m sorry Nesta, I’m so  _incredibly_  sorry, to both you and Elain.”

“Are you? With your coffee and your snacks? You  _look_  sorry. I’m sure it’s just eating you alive.” She slammed her mug on the tray and stood.

“Nesta,  _please_ -“ Cassian jumped up to take her hand as Nesta turned to walk away. 

He acted on instinct, not reality. 

His back and legs went into immediate spasms at the sudden motion. He fell to his knees, but he couldn’t reach so much as her pinky before blinding fire erupted across his body.

For the second time in a month, Cassian fought against his own limitations and  _tried_  to go to her. He bit his lip against the pain and growled through it as he blindly grabbed where she’d been.

“ _Please_ ,” his voice cracked.

His  _soul_  cracked-

-and a missing piece fell into place.

He remembered Hybern, more vividly than should have been possible as the cramping in his pinned wings flaired higher against his attempts to move.

_Nesta being dragged towards the Cauldron- the rage, pain, and fear in her eyes._

_The roaring in his own ears as he tried with everything in him and more to reach her,_ save _her._

 _His magic surrounding her in that cold, ageless dark. He’d been little more than a layer of skin against the primal forces that reached into her,_ through  _her._

_While his body fought through that all-consuming agony, his magic fought the Cauldron itself to save Nesta._

_He wasn’t strong enough-_

-he still wasn’t.

The Cauldron pried him away from Nesta as surely as his body now kept him from chasing after her. As his magic failed and his power was thrown out of the Cauldron, he’d  _felt_  a savage roar from the inside,  _seen_  her reaching for him in the dark-

-then she’d turned on the Cauldron itself. She’d attacked the force that pushed Cassian away, attacked the font of creation  _itself_  for daring to take him from her- for daring to  _touch_  her.

He was as helpless now as he was then. The cramp didn’t end in his back or shoulders, it consumed  _all_  of his muscles from the arches of his feet to his own damned  _tongue_. Everything was taut to the point of agony, and yet he was so exhausted he couldn’t keep fighting it.

From his kneeling positon, Cassian collapsed fully on the floor. He dragged through something- the coffee table most likely- and let overwhelming despair crash over him. As the cramp began to pass he was flooded with a cold, thick exhaustion in both body and spirit.

What kind of Commander couldn’t even fight for his High Lord’s family?

What kind of Illyrian let himself succumb to such weakness that he allowed his enemies to harm someone he’d sworn to protect?

What kind of male couldn’t even comfort the female he loved?

 _I’m sorry_ , he wished more than anything he could say those words to her,  _I’m sorry I was too weak to save you. I’m sorry that I’m not strong enough- smart enough- to find a way to help you now. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-_

“Ssh, don’t worry about that right now,” a soft voice parted the roaring in his ears, “breathe.”

Cassian obeyed the voice and forced a breath into his lungs. It felt like his ribs were cracking as the muscles protested his movement, but that only made him breathe deeper, forcing them to move.

The worst of the pain seemed to ease back, but the cramping in Cassian’s hands remained. As the minutes passed and his body unlocked, his hands retained that tightness. He didn’t dare move them. Anything could set off another flair. Cassian actually debated brightening the fae light, broadcasting his position so that one of his friends might find him and bring him back to bed. It felt as if something cracked in him when he jumped up to reach for Nesta, and the fact that Cassian was willing to pay patient for Madja again was a testimony to just how  _horrible_  the cramping had been.

His hands were throbbing-

-no… The skin was crawling-

-no… Something was moving across Cassian’s hands.

Exhaustion washed over him as he opened his eyes. His vision swam, his head was pounding, but bit by bit the swirl of colors he was seeing solidified.

A sort of peace settled over him at the sight of those hands.

Nesta’s hands.

It wasn’t a coffee table that caught Cassian as he slumped to the floor- Nesta was trying to hold him up through his spasm. She wasn’t cruel enough to walk away from someone in such obvious distress.

“You’re a reckless idiot, you could have hurt yourself moving like that.” Her words were clipped, but gentle.

“I  _did_  hurt myself,” Cassian forced a bit of levity into his voice. It was raw with weakness as he looked around to see where he was precisely. He’d collapsed beside the chair, far enough away that he knew he would have to walk to get back into it, but it wasn’t an overwhelming distance.

“Don’t even try it,” she followed his gaze to the chair. “I’ll bring you a pillow or something and find a way to summon one of the others to come get you. You should never have been allowed out of bed in this condition.”

“At the time the bed was more like a prison.”

“And right now?” Nesta arched an eyebrow.

Cassian tried to smile, “Nesta Archeron, are you saying  _you’d_  prefer me in bed?”

The exposed tips of her ears turned bright red and she released his hands with a huff, “At least now I know that you aren’t ‘ _too weak_ ’ to be an obnoxious little prick.”

“It’s not little,” he mumbled to buy himself time. The way she said ‘too weak’, and her voice through his pain-

-he hadn’t been thinking about what he wanted to say, he’d actually said it.

Cassian’s stomach churned slightly- had he also said aloud the part about comforting the female he loved?

There were hurried footsteps from the hallway and Cassian was spared from Nesta’s retort by the sight of two long, golden legs in bright turquoise pajama pants.

“Cassian!” Mor ran into the alcove and fell to her knees beside Nesta.

The other female stiffened immediately. Cassian felt the violent pulse of that strange, familiar power emanating from her once more as she looked to Morrigan.

Mor saw for herself that the more pressing matter in the room was the Archeron’s wrath, not Cassian’s condition. Even  _he_  was mildly afraid of that power, and he had a good idea of what it was. Mor however- she’d never felt anything like it, and hadn’t really been paying enough attention to the girl in Hybern’s castle to notice when Nesta came out of the Cauldron practically radiating it, “Nesta, we didn’t know-“

“Save it for someone who cares.” Nesta snapped. She practically threw Cassian’s hands from her own before she stood and stormed away (more successfully than the last time).

“She’s never going to forgive me for that.” Mor looked disappointed when she turned her attention back to Cassian, “Can you move?”

“You told her I was dead?” He let Mor pull him up just far enough to slump against the legs of the end table his coffee sat atop.

“And she helped me come to terms with letting you go… then you had to ruin the budding friendship by waking up.” Mor said dryly. “I didn’t know how to explain it to her, so… I hadn’t yet.”

“She’ll understand,” Cassian sighed as Mor grabbed a pillow from Nesta’s chair and wedged it behind him. His wings were nowhere near comfortable on the floor- they were strained too far back to accommodate him sitting on stone.

Mor sighed, “I told her you were dead so she’d let you go and give up hoping you’d come back.”

“Why did she need to let me go?” He remembered that force again- the one Nesta didn’t seem to realize she controlled. He remembered how it held him tight- first to protect him from himself, then almost like it was afraid he’d vanish forever. It wasn’t until it released him- or accepted that he was gone- that he could wake at all.

“Because the Suriel said it was the only way to help you.” Mor glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, nervous as to how he’d react.

Cassian only snorted, “You’ve been hanging around Feyre too much.”

Mor rolled her eyes, “Ready to try standing?” She helped Cassian brace himself and roll to the side. It jarred his wing and he hissed against anticipated pain- but nothing happened. Mor helped him to his knees, then to only one knee, and finally to his feet. “Cassian?”

He didn’t miss the uncertainty and sadness in her voice. There was something else- something she wanted to tell him, “Yeah?”

“Nothing,” Mor swallowed whatever it was. She only gripped Cassian’s elbow to help lead him from the room, “Your chambers are closer than the edge of the wards. Why don’t you sleep in your own bed for a bit, I’ll see if it’s alright with Rhys and Az to just keep you up here instead of dragging you all the way outside and winnowing you back down. There’s more fresh air up here.”

“Deal,” more fresh air- and more chances to see Nesta.

Which could be good  _or_  bad, depending on her temper.

“Mor?”

“Yeah?”

He let her help him down the hallway in the opposite direction Nesta had gone, “What were you doing up here? You haven’t lived in the House since before Rhys went Under the Mountain.” She was in her pajamas- meaning someone had gone to fetch her from her apartment in Velaris.

“You had that look about you yesterday- I figured you’d charm one of the wraiths into a jail-break. I’ve been drinking hot cocoa in the dining room since I left the townhouse earlier… and trying to figure out how to break it to Nesta that you were alive. I heard you fall.”

Cassian squeezed Mor’s hand and offered a half-smile. She wasn’t proud of the lie she’d told Nesta- or her own inability to rectify it before Nesta found Cassian for herself. It weighed on her, but he understood why she’d done it. In her shoes, he would have made the same decision.

“Come on, old man. We’ll get you in bed for tonight and tomorrow you can help me figure out how to make it up to her.”

“Deal, youngling.” Cassian groaned against a slight spasm in his hip and let Mor lead him down the hallway.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Nesta, but as his strength rapidly vanished, he knew he would have to settle for seeing her in his dreams.

They would probably spend his unconscious hours bickering as usual, but honestly to Cassian that sounded like a sweet dream indeed.

“Why are you smiling like some kind of idiot?” Mor raised an eyebrow as she released him to haul open his chamber doors.

“No reason.”

—

* * *

—

Elain was watching the fire burn low when Nesta stormed back into the room.

“Did you see the ghost?”

“There is no such thing as ghosts,” Nesta snapped. She took a deep, heavy breath and turned to face her sister, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just tired.”

Nesta was so angry with Mor she could hardly see straight. She’d been  _kind_  to that bratty female, she’d played the sympathetic ear and actually mourned Cassian  _with_  her. Mor must have thought that was _sooo_  funny, watching the stupid, ignorant human gobble up her lies. How she must have  _laughed_  as she sat there for two damned days, imagining Nesta in her mourning black wandering the halls because she could hardly sleep since Cassian’s ‘death’.

Cassian- she tried not to hold anything against him. Especially not after she saw how he’d suffered simply reaching for her hand.

Especially not after she heard his apology, whimpered between clenched teeth as his body shook.

When Nesta first saw him in that moonlit alcove- when he told her he was there because he couldn’t sleep- she’d honestly thought his ghost had come from it’s final rest to speak to her… 

Right up until the fae light came on and she realized he was  _alive_.

All of her pain had melted instantly into a joyous, wondrous  _relief_  she hadn’t felt since Feyre reappeared on their doorstep (the first time, when she was human). She was a master at hiding it, but she’d been terrified for her youngest sister. When Feyre came back as a fae  _months_  later- Nesta knew the darkness would follow her. That they’d all be sucked into some horrible nightmare…

But so long as Cassian was here, was it really such a terrible place?

Even when they bickered and fought, even when he choked out apology after apology, even after everything she’d been through- Nesta hadn’t felt so light in  _weeks_.

“Why are you smiling?” Vacant as she was, Elain noted the slight curve of her sister’s lips.

“No reason.”


	5. Chapter 5

** Chapter 5 **

Amren looked ridiculous and for that, someone was going to pay.

_It took two weeks for Varian to make this for me, and this is the best he could manage?!_

A golden-haired, doe-eyed simpleton looked out from a small hand mirror Amren stole from Mor. The female looked like the kind she despised most- innocent, trusting, and _dumb_. Those ridiculous hazel eyes had _irises_ and _pupils_ for Gods-sake! Not to mention the way its hair was braided with summer flowers!

As if the female wasn’t insult enough _physically_ , she was wearing a pale lavender gown made up of silk panels over gold tulle. Cloth-of-gold slippers added a flourish to the insult and tied the ridiculous outfit together. A braided gold ring on her left hand marked the abominable creature as a married fae- and acted as a physical tether to the glamour.

Amren turned her head, and the vacant blonde did as well. She gnashed her teeth and snarled. When her reflection copied her it just looked… cute. Like a baby playing make-believe.

_I’m definitely killing somebody today._

She reminded herself for the hundredth time that this was something she _had_ to wear. It was either this or stay in Velaris, which was completely unacceptable.

Feyre had been in Spring for just over a month, and only Azriel’s kitchen spy was passing along any updates on her wellbeing. She’d oven quite the web of lies to keep Tamlin from so much as kissing her, and while Lucien Vanserra’s attention was too focused to be simple concern, it sounded as if he was content to simply let her do as she wished, especially in exchange for nuggets of information on Elain.

Still, Amren couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Azriel was almost wholly recovered from Hybern’s poison, Cassian could _just_ manage a trip between the Townhouse and the House of Wind, and while Elain Archeron was little more than a shell, Nesta Archeron seemed to be adapting to her new fae body well enough. Amren hadn’t bothered to visit Feyre’s sisters (considering how vapid and arrogant they sounded), but she kept tabs all the same.

 _That_ was why Amren asked Varian to weave his strongest possible glamour and hide the Angel of Death behind the guise of that innocent, pathetic little face.

Cassian was alright. Azriel would be wholly recovered soon. Nesta and Elain were under the strongest guard Rhysand could provide-

-which to Amren meant fate was preparing to deal a devastating blow to the Inner Circle, and Feyre was the only one she couldn’t protect. If Amren’s long life told her anything, it was that fate’s apologetic little patches of good luck came before the slaughter.

And she intended to meet this one head on.

 _No one_ would take Feyre Archeron from her friends. Amren would make damn well sure of it. This day- the Summer Solstice holiday throughout the Courts- was her best chance to slip into Spring unnoticed, and she would not waste the opportunity to see her friend again.

 _“Have you grown jealous of the Children of Eden, archangel? You’ve taken their form quite convincingly.”_ The voice of the Book of Breathings filled a place in Amren’s mind that had been silent since her arrival in Prythian. It was where her kin once spoke, and where her Father once commanded from.

“The Children of Eden were humans, dipshit.” Amren rolled those shining hazel eyes and set the mirror down. Her apartment was cold and dark in the pre-dawn hours, but that damned book was glowing faintly on her table.

“ _Were they? Immortal and one with the creation around them- you’re right, there is nothing of Eden in these fae at all.”_

“Go to hell.” She pulled the ring off her finger and took a quick glance at the mirror. Swirling silver eyes stared back at her from a scowling face that could _never_ look innocent or stupid.

Perfect.

“ _A shadowed demon stole your name, will you let the insult pass I wonder?_ ”

“Do you _ever_ shut up?” Amren grabbed a jar of blood for one last snack before she left.

“ _When you are whole once more, will you burn this world to ash Azrael?_ ”

“I said _shut up_.” She slammed the half-full jar down on the book cover, splattering it with goat’s blood. The spots faded into the gold, as if the book itself were drinking.

Perhaps that was all it wanted- to goad Amren into feeding it. She didn’t particularly give a shit. She wanted it _silent_. The mention of her old name- of who she was at her core- made her very blood boil. She didn’t _want_ to be that creature anymore, and if the book thought to wake the archangel from its slumber, it was barking down the wrong path.

Amren slid the ring into a pocket on her loose gray pants and headed out into the city before the Book dared to speak again.

While most residents of Velaris chose to go about their business during the day, a fair enough number lived during the night that she passed through the streets of the city as unnoticed as the Second in Command of the Night Court could be (or was it third, now that Feyre was High Lady?). She felt the gaze of that wretched book on her spine, and it hastened Amren’s path away from her own home. If she could throw that book in the river and be done with it, she would… but it was her only chance at being freed of her physical form, and if the war went badly, she’d need to resurrect Azrael to save those she loved the most.

When Rhysand was trapped Under the Mountain, the House of Wind had been left outside of the shield. He’d worried that the Illyrians in particular would manage to build up enough speed on the vertical climb that they would rocket through the shield itself, and to his credit Cassian actually tried just that as the shied was closing. Rhysand was forced to brace the barrier just above the rooftops- giving Azriel and Cassian enough room to fly, but not to even attempt escape.

The side effect of that decision was that the others _also_ lost their home.

Azriel moved into the official residence of the Spymaster of Night- a dilapidated shack in the city’s worst seaside district. The interior was all polished mahogany and abalone shell inlay, more regal than anything he was comfortable with. For the first four years, Cassian saw himself as a house-sitter for Rhys, and he kept the townhouse warm, clean, and fully stocked for Rhys’ return… but he’d never considered it his home, and it was only at Amren’s prompting that Azriel went to inspect the home for himself. Once he realized Cassian was only letting himself sleep in a chair in the sitting room, he brought his brother to stay with him for the remaining forty-five years.

Mor couldn’t stand to go _near_ the Townhouse in those early years. Rhysand’s scent was too near- an eternal reminder of who was missing from their group (as if they could forget). She’d taken up residence in an old apartment that overlooked the Rainbow, where she was near her favorite dance halls and the Palace of Thread and Jewels that she favored so much.

The apartment was one she’d held for centuries, she just used it more for her trysts than as an actual residence. After Under the Mountain, she chose to make that her home, instead of her chambers in the House of Wind.

Amren hoped she was there as she crossed the Sidra and saw Mor’s home in the distance. She didn’t have time for the trek to the House of Wind to hunt her down, and Rhysand was out of the question. He was far too suspicious for her to get away with anything.

Most of the apartment looked to be dark, but there was a soft, flickering light in the bedroom window. Amren just rolled her eyes- another lover no doubt.

There was a café across the street from Mor’s home, and Amren sat with a mug of steaming blood to wait. Out of curiosity, over the years Amren had mapped the daily routines of each member of the Inner Circle. It was nothing more than an idle way to spend time, but she knew that before the clock struck four, Mor would eject her new toy and be more amenable to Amren’s demand.

She kept an eye on one of the city clocks and waited, watching the clock’s hand move slowly but surely. If it _did_ hit four and Mor wasn’t alone yet, Amren would simply go up there and drag her out. She was on a schedule- and Mor’s ignorance of that was no excuse for her to be late.

Five minutes before four, a tall, brunette female left the apartment. Amren judged her in an instant- keen eyes, silky hair, a long, confident stride- she was _precisely_ Mor’s type. The tilt of her chin, however, marked her as unacceptably wrong for the Third in Command of the Court. Amren crossed the street to the stairwell leading up into the apartments and had her suspicion confirmed: Mor’s scent was practically rolling off that female- enough that her own scent of berries and cornflower was almost completely obscured.

_Good, then she’s alone now._

Amren reached her door and knocked hard, just in case Mor was bathing or perhaps asleep already. There was a _crash_ from inside as Mor tripped over something or another, followed by a slightly drunken giggle.

“I just slipped on my own dress,” Mor cackled as she threw the door open, stark naked.

“Hopefully nothing’s broken,” Amren pushed into the apartment as color drained hard and fast from Mor’s face.

“A-Amren, what are you doing here?” she slammed the door, bolted it, and then ran around the small fae to retrieve a scandalous turquoise dress that was indeed bunched around an upturned table.

“I need to go to the Court of Nightmares.” The only way there was for Amren to be winnowed directly.

Mor glanced at a clock and tightened the dress around her, “It’s four in the morning. I was _sleeping_. Why do you need to go there _now_?” Her tone was turning rapidly towards rage as embarrassment and fear warred within her, but the intended bite was somewhat lost by her slurred speech.

Amren waved a hand, “I saw your male leaving as I turned down the street. You were awake. Just take me where I want to go and _then_ you can go to bed.”

Ever since she _met_ Mor, just after the female had been carved up by her wretched father, Amren had known Mor preferred females over males. She also knew that Mor kept that a closely held secret- one she would do anything to keep Cassian or Azriel from discovering. _That_ was why her lovers left before four- to give Mor time to air their scents out of her home before breakfast in case the Illyrians (mainly Cassian) appeared to mooch food off of her. It was also why she’d kept the apartment in Velaris, despite Rhysand giving her expansive chambers in the House of Wind- this was where she brought females so the males wouldn’t see.

Her secrecy was wholly unnecessary- Amren had seen Rhysand whispering with Rita over the centuries, passing along the names of females for her to steer Mor towards who he thought might spark her interest. Cassian pretended _not_ to notice those females Mor danced with when she thought he was distracted or drunk, and as far as she knew he was gone before she left with them. Even Azriel- still doing his best to deny his feelings for her- had stumbled across her late one night during their first century in Velaris with a female in tow.

Mor thought her secret was, well, _secret_ , and the others were playing along until she was comfortable enough to tell them the truth. Amren suspected each male was unaware the _other_ males knew, and even though she didn’t understand the point in letting Mor think she was fooling them, Amren allowed the ruse to continue.

Few were better liars than the members of the Inner Circle. They had to convince Prythian that they were monsters, and only in seclusion or Velaris were they free to be themselves. Hiding her secret as long as she had made Mor among the very best, but Amren could still see the sparkle of relief and weariness in her eyes when the building rage vanished. She thought her secret was safe, for another day at least.

“Amren, you can’t just come around here in the middle of the night. We’ve talked about this.”

“We have, but I need a few books and the library in the Hewn City is the only place to find them. So… let’s go.”

Mor was too relieved that her secret was kept to turn Amren down with any real force. She sighed, and Amren knew she’d won.

“Give me a minute to get dressed.”

“Why? Just winnow me to the residence above the Hewn City. I’ll find my way from there.”

“Nudity doesn’t bother you, but I’m uncomfortable,” Mor rolled her eyes and walked to the bedroom door.

“Judging by some of the clothes you wear, I doubt that.” Amren huffed.

Nudity meant _nothing_ to her, and clothes were little more than a strange decoration humans (and fae) were obsessed with. Shame was such a uniquely _mortal_ concept (fae included, no matter how many millennia they might live), for her first three thousand years or so Amren didn’t even bother dressing. If any male saw that as an invitation to pounce, he learned slowly and very painfully that it was not nice to touch someone else without permission.

When Mor emerged from the bedroom she wore a midnight blue version of the traditional Night Court attire. She sighed and came to take Amren’s hand, “I’m not even sure I’m sober enough for this right now.”

“If you manage to winnow me into a wall, know that I’m not dead, just angry.” It was Amren’s turn to roll her eyes. A bit of mischief sparkled in her eye as she said, “By the way, that new scent about you is… different. Sweet, yet floral.”

Mor’s face (predictably) blanched. She took a step and winnowed Amren across the Night Court to the palace above the Hewn city. When the roaring darkness faded into starlight, she coughed slightly, “It’s just a new soap I’m trying.”

Amren released her hand, “If I may?”

“Say whatever you want.”

She thought back to the way that female moved as she left the house- and the look of smug satisfaction on her face, “It smells too young, but overly confident, arrogant even. You smell like an ambitious little viper, and you’re too good for that. Pick a soap more worthy of your attentions next time. You’re better than this one, and it will always refuse to see that.”

“I didn’t realize you were so passionate about soap.” Mor looked away as her cheeks heated.

“Only when it comes to the people I care about. Pick me up this time tomorrow.” Amren turned her back and walked off into the palace, leaving Mor to find her way back home.

Amren did indeed make a bee-line for the staircase leading down into the mountain depths. It was wide, carved from obsidian, and draped with black velvet to cushion her steps. There was no handrail, even as the ground vanished to reveal the Hewn City far below. To install one would be seen as a slight against the High Lord. For any regular High Lord it might appear they were afraid of being attacked in their own home and pushed from the heights- which implied weakness. For _Rhys_ in particular it would be more of a joke- and the citizens of the Hewn City didn’t even know that he had inherited his mother’s wings.

So Amren was on display for any and all to see as she descended the massive, winding path that circled the castle at the heart of the Hewn City. A soft chime rang out from one of the turrets- alerting those inside to the presence of Rhysand’s Court. Amren shot a snarl at that turret and another, deeper chime rang- she wasn’t there to see anyone inside the castle.

Still, even with the cancelled summons, Amren knew eyes were watching now more than ever. They sought to track the Second in Command through the city on even her most mundane visits. Her presence without the others almost always meant a trip to the library, it was better they didn’t know her true intentions.

Luckily Amren was older than the city itself, and she had the foresight to make a few alterations to her advantage.

She’d seduced the High Lord who first decided to hollow out the mountain and build his capitol there. He was tedious, obnoxious, and overwhelmingly arrogant- which annoyed Amren to no end. Still, she endured his clumsy pawing if only so that she could put a few suggestions in as this new capitol was carved.

One of those being the addition of an “escape hatch” keyed to her strange magic in the library itself.

All Amren had to do was enter those massive, dark halls, stroke a column just right, and in an instant there was an echo of her petit form that would walk ahead of her to the more restricted and dangerous tomes, read for ten or twelve hours, and then fade into the shadows of the room. The _real_ Amren turned right, kept invisible by a glamour, and walked through a section of wall holding books that dealt with essays on the importance of kindness and morality- something absolutely no one in the eons she’d been there ever attempted to read. If they had, the illusion would have shattered to reveal her secret passage deep into the heart of the Court of Nightmares- one that came out beside the tunnel that would take her to Under the Mountain.

After her escape hatch was finished, Amren slaughtered the workers and sliced that ridiculous High Lord’s throat. The passage was forgotten, and even Rhysand himself did not know that it ever existed.

Ten minutes after the illusion was created high up in the Library, the over-polished obsidian of the Hewn City slowly gave way to something coarse, red, and sleek- the rough-cut marble of Under the Mountain.

That place which held Rhysand prisoner for nearly fifty years.

The place where that _whore_ Amarantha dared crown herself queen.

The place where a frightened human child was smashed, broken, and made High Fae.

When Feyre asked Rhysand to take her to the Prison with him, Amren knew the girl was pushing herself too far and too fast. That was why she gave Feyre her necklace and pretended it was some charm against the echo of the very darkness Amren herself walked through now.

She’d come here once before- while Rhysand was distracted after his return to Velaris. Amren went Under the Mountain to read with her extraordinary senses what happened to him in those red halls to extinguish the light from his eyes. The traumas he suffered, the horrors he endured- she could see echoes of them even now. Her power and senses were wholly different from the fae. She could see the past as clearly as she saw the stone around her right then.

The worst echo was the one that greeted her always- a flicker of Rhysand standing alone at the end of a passage he could never walk down. Pure agony and grief lit his eyes as he decided if he could stomach living just one more day as Amarantha’s whore… and the shame in his heart when he decided he was too great a coward to end it all. That flicker- mere seconds of memory- never failed to wake the holy wrath inside Amren. If she was ever unleashed upon Prythian, she would see to it that this mountain crumbled to dust for the suffering that he had endured inside it.

The shadow of memory wiped away any disgust Amren felt towards her glamoured form and renewed her confidence that this trip was not only right, it was her duty. She would endure playing the doe-eyed idiot for Feyre, to make sure that shining light in Rhysand’s eyes was safe again, and to see the friend she would _never_ admit she missed. All the shame and grief Rhysand felt Under the Mountain would be revenged upon their enemy tenfold- then Amren would walk into the bowels of hell itself and make sure Amarantha was suffering.

No sooner had Amren slid the ring from her pocket onto her finger than a male voice echoed to her from a bend in the tunnel ahead, “Well, don’t you look ridiculous.”

A faelight flickered to life, illuminating a white-skinned male with long red-brown hair. He’d tried to comb it slightly off center in the style favored by the lords of Spring, but frizzy bits stuck up here and there, and it was obvious enough he had no idea how to lightly oil the hair so that it remained sleek and smooth. His clothes were expensive but a little too well-worn, likely casualwear cast-offs dismissed by the upper class but treasured by a more impoverished lord. It was khaki embroidered in faded gold thread, and just barely hidden behind the lapel of the jacket a faded stain marred the un-starched undershirt.

This was not the kind of male anyone bothered to notice. He was barely a step up from the common folk, and yet trying _desperately_ to hold onto the status his title afforded. He wasn’t someone any lord would notice, _especially_ not elitists like Tamlin.

Amren glared through that too-cute face, “I don’t remember the point where I asked for your company on this trip, _Varian_.” She’d been prepared to fight that pathetic male, right up until she saw the worn gold band around his ring finger- a twin to hers.

“In Spring, males don’t let their females go to parties unescorted. Evidently your sex are far too fragile to know how to handle themselves alone.”

“I dare you to say that again,” Amren growled as Varian held out his arm for her to take.

He snorted, “My grandfather spent his entire reign modernizing attitudes and laws regarding the treatment of females. Trust me- I wish I hadn’t said it in the first place. Backwards nonsense.” The last bit he practically spat.

“Your grandfather was a decent enough male, though he was utterly _terrified_ of me.”

Something sparkled in the green eyes of that pale-skinned male Amren held, “Oh, he was more than terrified. He didn’t approve of how much I loved hearing bedtime stories about your darker exploits. He said I was courting an untimely end.” Varian winked and held out the hand with his fake wedding ring, “And look, now I’m married to the monster.”

His teasing soothed Azrael beneath her skin, woken somewhat by the vision of Rhysand’s past, “What would Tarquin say if he knew you were off gallivanting about with an enemy of the Court?” Amren raised an eyebrow, “He’s a more likely source for that ‘untimely end’.”

Varian just shrugged and flashed a smile. He didn’t give two shits that Tarquin sent blood-rubies to Night. He’d followed Amren around Summer like an adoring puppy and somehow figured out in the process that none of them were anything like the legends claimed- Rhysand included. Varian had zero doubt that one day the rift would be healed, and he refused to waste time playing sides until then.

The damp stench of dirt filled Amren’s nose as the ground softened. Something vile and sweet wound through her senses- probably roses based on Mor and Feyre’s descriptions of Spring. Varian wove a web around himself and Amren as the exited the cave, slipped invisible past two guards, and walked boldly into the Court of their enemy.

He was the scion of Summer, far more powerful than any normal fae. Amren had zero doubts that his ruse would hold up to even Hybern guards.

“Five in the morning,” Varian murmured as he pulled Amren towards the edge of the woods, “the ceremony starts soon.”

“Hurry then.” As soon as their feet touched the path through those woods, the glamour dropped and Amren plastered a pleasant smile on that ridiculous face Varian cursed her with. His own grin showed barely-contained excitement at the pending festivities, and the mask was so perfect even she almost believed it.

When they were far enough ahead that the cave guards saw them, Varian waved and called a blessing to them that was heartily returned. A poor lord and his wife, off for their very first Summer Solstice celebration, they were nothing those guards needed to bother even reporting to their commander.

Something occurred to Amren as she and Varian made their way to the rather cute hunting manor in the distance- what Ferye referred to as Tamlin’s _estate_. She frowned, “Isn’t this a holy day in your Court?”

“Yes, an incredibly important one,” Varian flashed a grin.

“And you won’t be in trouble with your cousin for missing it?”

He smiled up at the sky- now decidedly gray, “One of my generals, Gaius, has taken my place. Making _these_ was so much fun,” he held up his wedding ring again, “that I couldn’t resist crafting a third.”

“And this Gaius can do a fair enough imitation of you to fool Tarquin and Cresseida?”

“I should hope so, he was my _dearest_ friend for thirty years.”

“Meaning you two were lovers.”

Varian grinned again, “Does that bother you?”

 “Not if it’s over now.” She had certain things in mind for him, and if he was already taken it put a damper on her fun.

“It ended when he met his mate, an amicable separation I might add. I was the one who introduced them after all.”

“Good, because if I leave here in a good mood I might just thank you before sending you back to Summer.” She fluttered her eyelashes and let that simpleton face smile as sweet as any angel. Amren’s stomach churned with disgust at the thought of how she must look, but that brilliant light in Varian’s eyes glowed even brighter.

They circled the ‘estate’ and fell in with a small crowd heading out across the fields to a distant alter. Varian did not speak to Amren again, but rather both listened carefully to the flow of conversation around them.

Everyone was talking about the radiant Feyre Cursebreaker, and how having her in Spring was a blessing. The males were bragging about the hell they would rain down on Night as punishment for taking her, and the females were fueling their fire with suggestions about what horrible things they could do once they got ahold of Rhysand himself.

Feyre was certainly well loved in this Court, that part was obvious. A few spoke of actually seeing the Cursebreaker from a distance as she rode in the hills with her escort, or spied her sitting in a valley with her painting supplies. Her pack of guards was how they always knew it was Feyre- the watchers who gave her space, but never left her side. Lucien Vanserra seemed to be the leader of those bodyguards, and Feyre _always_ went to him first.

_Sooner or later, the High Lord will decide that she is a little too close to his friend. Suspicion will come in handy if Lucien ever turns on her- Tamlin is less likely to listen to a friend he thinks wishes to steal his property._

A bitter taste filled Amren’s mouth at the thought of _anyone_ treating her friend as less than she was.

Varian broke his silence to chat with a few males in the group and learned that they had some estate servants in their employ who passed along tidbits of gossip. Feyre did not approve of Hybern’s people, and while she never opposed Tamlin directly, she still carefully helped anyone who Princess Branagh or Prince Dagdan had threatened. Her protection also kept the servants from enduring Dagdan’s vile and perverse desires, which only endeared her further to everyone on that estate.

_His household is under her spell. If anything happens, if she has to get out fast, they will do whatever they can to help her. She is as beloved of the staff as she is revered._

Ohhh, Feyre Archeron was more clever than Amren had given her credit for. Rhysand brought down his enemies through fear and force, Feyre wove a beautiful tapestry of love and ensured she held the thread that would undo it all.

They were utterly perfect for one another. A Lord of Nightmares and his Lady of Dreams.

The parade ended at an already crowded hillside, where hundreds stood to one side of a gray stone altar. Varian pulled Amren off to the northern edge and stood with his arm around her shoulders and a dim smile plastered upon his face.

They listened carefully as the crowd began to hush their voices and spoke in awe of the Cursebreaker. She and Tamlin would be arriving soon, and it was to be the first glance many in the crowd had of Feyre since her ‘ordeal’ in Night.

They recounted their stories of meeting Feyre at Tamlin’s ridiculous tithe, and it as almost awe-inspiring how _deeply_ those faeries read into that polite smile Amren knew well. Apparently a simple “Nice to meet you” had at least fifteen layers of hidden meanings, each more ridiculous than the last.

 What would they say if they knew that when she’d smiled at them that day, she was completely and utterly shattered inside? What would they say if they knew she was on the verge of breaking apart and screaming for anyone to save her?

Amren thought back to the time when Feyre was not yet a part of their world. Before rescuing Feyre from her wedding, Rhysand was just as broken as she was. He tried desperately to hide it, but he couldn’t stand to be both apart from _and_ around his closest friends. Only Mor was supposed to know that he was surrendering his mate to the male who’d been responsible for ripping his family from him, but they all knew exactly what Feyre was to him… and what he’d been through before that latest insult of fate.

Then one day he simply grabbed Mor and vanished with wild panic in his eyes. Mor returned to Velaris that night to report the good news- Feyre Archeron was _not_ married to Tamlin and was in Night for the week. As much as Feyre tried Rhysand’s patience with that temper she’d learned from Nesta- she brought him roaring back to life. He pissed her off, and she returned every last biting remark until, one magical day, she was finally theirs.

Tamlin imprisoned her in that house, Mor went in to free her, and suddenly she was in Night. It took real effort to keep Cassian and Azriel from the Townhouse the _second_ they knew she was inside, and even Amren was only a heartbeat away from breaking down the doors to see her. They were all curious about the female who would bring Rhysand to his knees, and only his warning in their minds that she was the furthest thing from ready to meet them saved the entryway Amren’s wrath.

Feyre was _theirs_. She was family and friend, and Amren almost pitied the people of Spring for their delusions about her. The pretty mask she wore for them hid a truly remarkable female, one who blessed her friends with friends with her wit and snark.

“There’s your girl,” Varian nudged Amren and bent down to whisper in her ear.

Amren’s head snapped around to see a faint light making its way towards the hilltop- a procession of horses leading Feyre, Lucien, Tamlin, Ianthe, Jurian, and the Hybern delegation towards that alter.

When she was close enough to see clearly, only Varian’s hand on Amren’s shoulders kept her from charging Feyre’s horse and taking her home _now_.

She looked utterly miserable behind her perfect mask- something Amren knew she alone could see.

The smile that was carefully pinned on her face looked genuine enough, but Amren’s extended senses showed her the sorrow radiating from the High Lady of Night. She missed her true Court, and when Tamlin helped her down from her horse, there was a hint of darkness behind that shy smile.

Was Feyre remembering her wedding day, when she wore a different white dress and made her way to _another_ alter that Iathe commanded?

If that was where her mind was, she might be pleased to know that Night was already waiting there in the crowd for her. All it would take was a glance for Amren to rip through them all and bring her home.

Amren tuned out the ceremony, though Varian put his heart and soul into the prayers and chants Ianthe led them in. He hated the priestess, but this was the holiest of days in his Court, and it showed in the sincerity of his devotion. She was more focused on watching Feyre- or the back of Feyre’s head- and her need to commit every last detail to memory. Amren memorized and analyzed how she looked- not just the emotions carefully sitting beneath the mask- but the color of her cheeks in the approaching dawn, the slightly ill way her clothes fit- as though she’d been skipping some meals, and the way she kept stroking her empty ring finger.

She wasn’t thinking about her first wedding, she was thinking about the day Mor came to rescue her. Mor had seen a melted puddle of gold with a small emerald on the floor- her wedding ring burned straight off in the fury of her power.

When the sun rose _around_ Ianthe and Feyre began to glow, Amren had to bite her own tongue to keep from laughing. As soon as Lucien knelt before her to kiss her hand and they _both_ illuminated, even Varian was hiding his giggles behind a persistent cough. Tears streamed down Amren’s face, and she hoped more than anything that Rhysand was somehow seeing the sheer spectacle his mate unleashed upon the superstitious of Spring.

She was never happier to bow before _anyone_ than she was when she took a knee with the rest of the crowd. Feyre ceased to be human, fae, or even _Cursebreaker_ and managed to become something holy instead.

The _second_ the procession recovered from her ‘miracle’ and everyone made their way to nearby hills, Amren and Varian managed to push through the lines. The morning would be spent in polite conversation before the festivities of the evening. Tamlin had to be available to accept the awe and adoration from visitors while Feyre was left to wander on her own- as if that pathetic male had _anything_ to do with her blessed display.

Amren made sure she was the _first_ to plant herself in Feyre’s path.

Being so close to her- smelling that newly-mated scent that was both hers and Rhysand’s- again, it took nearly more than Amren had in her to resist the urge to drag the female out of that den of Spring vipers and all the way back to Night where she belonged.

“Majestic Lady, may we say that it is an overwhelming honor to bask in your glow?” Varian bowed and flashed a giddy smile.

 _Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t we?_ Amren wished he was daemati so that he could hear her as she imitated the bow.

“The honor is all mine.” Feyre said kindly. Her voice was too polished to be hers. Never once did Amren know Feyre to hide herself behind so thick a mask. It made her heart ache- knowing her friend was forced to play this part.

“My wife and I were not Under the Mountain, but her sister was taken there before the end. She is very shy, but she would love to thank you for her kin’s safe return.” Varian prompted Amren forward.

She took Feyre’s hand and a bit of genuine warmth lit the High Lady’s smile, “I’m glad to hear that your sister made it home safely. I’m sorry for your family’s suffering.”

Amren offered a soft smile- for once not caring about the vacant face she wore in this form, “My family did suffer- greatly- while she was trapped in enemy lands. We prayed every day for her safe return. She was never forgotten, and we never stopped missing her.” Amren squeezed Feyre’s hand tight.

Something flickered on Feyre’s face- not recognition, but Amren could tell a sliver of her true words hit home, especially today. She’d obviously been thinking about Rhysand and Mor as that ceremony progressed, and even now the Inner Circle was on her mind.

Feyre smiled and squeezed her hand back, not sure how to reply. Amren saw another group approaching and forced herself to release Feyre, “Happy Solstice, Feyre Cauldron-Blessed.”

She could tell that Feyre wanted to say something to her, but the group stole her attention and in the crush of people, Amren and Varian let themselves vanish into the crowd. She would be furious if she knew Amren was there checking on her, but the old angel’s heart felt lighter than it had in a month. She and Varian continued their rounds, made polite conversation whenever someone stopped them, but always kept Feyre in sight.

There was danger for her in Spring, yes, but even when Amren forced herself to speak to Hybern’s twin generals, she sensed nothing that Feyre could not handle. Her lies had been accepted with a readiness that was almost laughable, and the tapestry she’d woven around Tamlin, Lucien, Hybern, and the Court was so delicate and elaborate, any movement against her by _any_ player on the board would bring nothing but chaos and ruin- especially after today.

She’d ripped the legs right off of Spring’s High Priestess, wrapped a noose around Tamlin’s throat, and had built for Branagh and Dagdan a pyre they did not yet realize they’d been tied to. Amren put a hand over her heart and took a long breath at the peace that pooled there.

“Feel better?” Varian rubbed her shoulder and planted a kiss on Amren’s forehead.

She only smiled at the intimacy- something she sensed was _not_ merely part of their act, “Yes. Though I was hoping for the opportunity to kill someone today.”

“How long do you want to stay? We might find you a bottom feeder or two at tonight’s festivities.”

“Really?” Amren dared a smile. When she saw Varian, she thought the day might be cut short.

“As long as you’re here, I’m happy to stay.” He stepped around her and slid one hand to Amren’s hips. He danced with her atop the hill to music that he hummed quietly.

Amren glanced to Feyre- safe, even though she was miserably alone here, “I want to make sure she’s really alright.”

“Then we’ll stay all day and night,” he bent down and brushed his lips along Amren’s cheek lightly.

They did indeed remain in Spring until, around two the next morning, Feyre was escorted back to the estate by Lucien, with Tamlin’s suspicious, hungry eyes at her back. Amren practically ran back into the tunnel with Varian, both choking on their laughter once more as they imagined the sheer fury and rage Tamlin would unleash upon his best friend.

The noose was tightening, and Amren couldn’t be more proud.

“Am I forgiven for the glamour?” Varian asked as he removed Amren’s ring between gasps of laughter.

She only ripped his off his own finger and shoved her Lord of Summer down onto the red stone of Under the Mountain.

It was only hours later- when Amren at long last summoned Mor to the residence atop the Hewn City- that she realized she forgot to put her clothes back on after she and Varian were finished.

At Mor’s scandalized fury, all Amren could do was break down into fresh laughter bright enough to _terrify_ one of her oldest friends.

For the first time in half a century, Amren actually felt _hope_.

Her warm smile was the most disturbing thing Mor had ever seen.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

At some point, just as the Inner Circle began to feel even a little hope that things might go in their favor, Fate decided to step in and make itself known.

Azriel could winnow and fly without exhausting himself too quickly, Cassian had was carrying Mor on his exercises and could remain in the sky most of the time, Mor herself had made massive progress with Nesta (who now only ignored her!), and Rhysand had taken up Azriel’s job of checking in with spy networks around Prythian. 

Amren was in high spirits even  _before_  Rhys share with her the image of Feyre bathed in the light of the sun while Ianthe looked on red-faced. For that old monster to smile and laugh- it was a miracle in itself.

They dared to hope- they dared to  _dream_  that maybe, just maybe, there was a version of their tale that ended with everyone standing together in the townhouse alive and whole and with Hybern defeated.

… and then the first blow came.

Four days after the Summer Solstice, as Rhys endured an awkward (and mildly hostile) lunch with the Archeron sisters, he stiffened. Cassian was beside him, bating Nesta, and he threw a shield over the females as Rhys’ skin exploded in black scales. They were crawling up his neck as he snarled and dug into the table with those horrific talons, ripping through wood as easily as if it were tissue paper.

Cassian shoved the table away (gently sliding Nesta and Elain out of the path) and planted himself in front of his friend as he tried to calm him. If he transformed into that beast, he could very well destroy the House of Wind before Rhys’ rational mind overtook the monster.

Bit by bit, Cassian managed to talk Rhysand down before anything more than the table was ruined.

Then he found out what set him off:

Tamlin struck Feyre.

It was a worktable flung across the room by his power- but that prick  _dared_  to strike the High Lady of Night. In her sudden panic and confusion Feyre had reached for the bond- for her mate- and for the first time since bringing her to Night, Rhysand was overwhelmed with the panic and pain of that female he loved.

Nesta and Elain were sent out of the room long before Mor and Azriel arrived to find out what the hell had happened, and Rhys was there to relay Feyre’s assurances that she would be alright. Though, if he stopped them from slaughtering Spring or if  _they_  stopped  _him_ , he’d never know.

But if Tamlin so much as looked sideways at Feyre, they would go in there and bring her back home. It was no longer a matter of having faith in her- they would never stop loving and trusting their friend- it was a matter of history. Of what Tamlin’s family had taken from them already, and of what he’d taken from Feyre all those months they’d been together after Under the Mountain.

The day Tamlin (or his magic) struck Feyre should have been the worst they had to endure before she winnowed back home to Night…

But then, four days later, the Inner Circle was plunged into an entirely different kind of Hell.

It started during breakfast, as Mor wandered across Velaris towards the Townhouse to mooch eggs and bacon off of her cousin. She’d long since trained Rhys to keep a full spread on his table, lest she or the Illyrians wake up feeling peckish. She made it to the end of the street before Cassian’s shouting was audible.

“ARE YOU COMPLETELY INSANE YOU CAULDRON-DAMNED PRICK? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA-“

He went quiet as someone spoke.

“-DON’T TELL ME TO BE QUIET! NOT AFTER THIS! NOT AFTER YOU MAKE-“

A shield rose up around the Townhouse and the street fell silent once more.

Unfortunately, Mor knew she would be allowed inside… and she also knew what must have happened for Cassian’s temper to be unleashed.

He knew Feyre was High Lady.

She headed quickly for the Townhouse, not even bothering to acknowledge the curious faces that stared out from the windows. Cassian had woken half the block before Rhys muted the residence. Mor put a hand on the doorknob and the shield rippled, admitting her.

“-AND WHAT? YOU DECIDED THAT WAS A  _SECRET_  THAT SHOULD BE KEPT WHEN WE’RE GOING TO FUCKING  _HYBERN_ WITH BOTH HEADS OF THIS COURT?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO WOULD HAVE TAKEN YOUR THRONE IF YOU TWO DIED?!”

Mor closed the door behind her, but remained in the hallway and out of Cassian’s line of fire.

Rhys’ voice was patient, but hard, “The same person you thought would take it if  _I_  died. We were all on the same mission Cass, it isn’t like Feyre or I stowed away in the raiding party. You knew I was High Lord, it didn’t matter if-“

“IT MATTERED! IT ALWAYS MATTERED! IT WILL NEVER  _STOP_ MATTERING!”

“She wanted to tell you all when everyone could be happy about it, not when it just complicated the attack plan! After Hybern, at dinner that night, we were going to tell you.”

“INSTEAD WE WERE HALF-SLAUGHTERED AND SHE ENDED UP IN THE HANDS OF THAT MONSTER WHO CALLS HIMSELF LORD OF SPRING!  _HE’S THE REASON OUR MOTHER AND SISTER ARE DEAD, HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN THAT?!_ ”

Mor winced. Cassian wanted a fight, and he was doing whatever it took to get a rise out of Rhysand. No one told Cass what Feyre truly was to the Night Court. They didn’t want to worry him as he was recovering, then they simply hoped that Feyre might return  _before_ anyone had to reveal the truth of her position…

…which made the rest of the Inner Circle exactly like the High Lord and Lady of Night. The same motivations, the same reasoning, and the same bullshit excuses.

“Cassian, you know that isn’t fair,” Rhys sighed.

“FAIR?! I WOULD HAVE GIVEN MY  _LIFE_  TO PROTECT FEYRE-“

“And you wouldn’t have done that before? What would you have done if she was just our friend? When Hybern closed that noose around our throats, destroyed your wings, and handed her over to Tamlin like some kind of prize- what would you have done differently? Would you have just shrugged and said ‘Well, she’s just a friend, so you keep her’?” Rhys waited for an answer.

“You know that’s not-“

“You knew she was my mate and you did absolutely everything you could to protect her. Where would you have drawn the line for someone who was just a friend? At what point would you have given up on her? Hell, if you’d met her just that day- what would change?”

“She isn’t just some random female who-“

“If she was,” Rhys pushed, “what would change? Cassian, you would  _never_  let anyone face those monsters when you were physically capable of stopping it. Nothing would have changed no matter what Feyre was to us all- a stranger, a friend, my mate, or your High Lady.”

Cassian growled, but Mor could tell the battle was won. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath from the entry way.

Cauldron-damn the fool, but Rhys was right.

Nothing would have changed if they knew the truth. Not a single, solitary thing. They loved Feyre as fiercely as they loved one another, and though they’d pushed harder to protect her as Rhys’ mate- to protect him from the loss of something so precious so soon after finding it- the truth was that if she were just another innocent along for the ride, they would have done the same thing.

“The problem isn’t the secret, it’s that there was a secret in the first place.” Rhys sighed as he made Cassian’s argument for him, “I understand that, and I’m sorry. It was just as important to Feyre and I that you all survived, and she thought splitting your focus could get you killed. Changing the game at the eleventh hour… I agreed with her. I still agree with her. Hybern was a disaster but- but we all survived Cass. It was more of a gift than Feyre or I ever thought we’d be granted. If Feyre makes it home-  _when_  she makes it home- maybe it will be a sign of what’s to come. A sign that… that this war could end in our favor after all.”

“That’s a bullshit dream,” Cassian spat, “and you’re an idiot if you believe it.”

Mor heard the sound of wood against wood as a chair was pushed back from the table. A few hard footsteps later and Cassian was in the hallway. His dark glare struck her harder than any blow- the sheer rage in his eyes was world-ending. Mor stepped aside and let the Illyrian walk past her and out of the townhouse.

Though the door closed no harder than usual behind him, the sound still made Mor wince.

“Don’t bother saying anything,” Rhys mumbled from the dining room, “I know the routine by now. I’m a piece of shit for not telling anyone Feyre was High Lady… Or I’m a piece of shit for not going straight to Spring to get her back… Or I’m a piece of shit for nearly murdering my best friend… Or I’m a piece of shit for not going to get Feyre four days ago when Tamlin hit her… You know what Mor? I’m beginning to think I’m just a piece of shit in general.”

He’d won the fight against Cassian, so why did Rhys sound so utterly defeated?

Mor left the entryway at long last and walked slowly to the dining room. Rhys was sitting there, poking at his scrambled eggs with the edge of a spoon, whittling them into smaller and smaller chunks. He was wearing a rich ebony tunic- meaning he intended to go to the Court of Nightmares.

“Feel like playing a villain?” She slid into a chair on the far end of the table from him- both giving Rhys space and making it clear she wasn’t leaving.

“It gets harder every time,” he mumbled. “The decisions, the masks… but I have to protect this wretched place. I’m already the High Lord who opened Velaris to attack. I won’t be the one who loses Night entirely.”

“We know why you kept Feyre’s title a secret, and you know why we’re angry.”

Rhys nodded at his food.

“Why didn’t you go to Spring to bring her back?”

“Because… because we need the intel.”

“Lie.” Mor didn’t need to touch her power to read it.

“We needed Spring to-“

“Lie.”

He stared at his eggs for a long time, “Because I want Tamlin to suffer for everything he cost us, and Feyre needs him to pay for what he did to her- the neglect and imprisonment-“

“Lie.” Mor crossed her arms.

Rhys closed his eyes and sighed, “Because she wanted to go- or at least when she realized it was the only way to get us out she did. She wanted to do something brave and I swore to her a long time ago that I would never be like Tamlin. I will never stand in her way.”

“Truth.” She picked up a muffin from one of the platters and tore off a chunk to eat, “Why did you want to kill Cassian?” Her heart skipped at beat at even the mention of that horrific day.

“Because I thought he was already gone.”

Mor considered it, then ate another bite, “Expand on that.”

“Because I thought he was already gone and… and it’s what Cassian would have wanted… But he  _wasn’t_  gone, and I didn’t-“

“Why didn’t you get Feyre when Tamlin threw the table at her?” She actually had to tap into her power for that one. Rhys never explained his reasoning to any of them.

Rhys rolled his shoulders and a bit of darkness rose from his skin- the only hint of panic and rage that he was willing to show, “Because I don’t just love Feyre, I trust her… She knows home is always here, and whenever she speaks to me I can  _feel_  how much she misses you all… If she’s still there, it’s because she thinks she needs to be. She’s started promising she’ll return soon and after that- since she hasn’t returned, it means she isn’t ready yet. She’s losing herself in all of this, she let Tamlin hurt her so that his people would be forced to see him for what he is. I understand why she’s still there I just…” he closed his eyes again, “I want her home… but I also trust her to know when to come back.”

Mor ate more of her muffin while Rhys spoke. When he was done she only shrugged, “To summarize- you tried to protect us by keeping Feyre’s new title secret, you had faith enough in your mate to let her do what she feels she needs to do, you wanted to honor your friend after exhausting any possibilities that he’d survived Hybern at all, and that mate you have faith in- you also trust her and support her decisions.” She stood and offered Rhys an exasperated half-smile, “Yeah, you’re a real piece of shit. Go ahead, play villain in the Court of Nightmares, it’ll make you feel as wretched as you already are.”

She took a step back towards the door and hesitated, “Rhys- we understand why you do it, and you were right to make each decision but… we don’t have to be happy about it. The secrets  _have_  to stop. And you  _have_  to stop throwing yourself in front of every sword or arrow you find. You’ve paid too high of a price too many times to keep this up. As angry as all of us are with you, we’re also scared  _for_ you.”

_When Night falls, make sure Feyre Archeron is in his arms._

The words of the Suriel- of Rhys’ own mother- echoed in Mor’s heart. Rhysand was the one who would pay the greatest price in this war with Hybern, but she wouldn’t let him pay it alone. Maybe that horrible day could be pushed back a few years- a few centuries even, if they could convince that prick to stop sacrificing himself at every opportunity.

But if they failed- if the High Lord of Night really did fall in battle- Mor wouldn’t let her cousin go thinking he was anything less than someone they all loved.

“Mor, I-“

Rhys’ words were cut off as a shockwave rippled through him,  _from_ him. It crashed over Mor, raced across the streets of Velaris, and flooded the Night Court itself. An overwhelming wall of dread and terror blasted out from Rhysand, accompanied only seconds later by the blackest night Mor had ever seen.

In the center of that tempest of fear and darkness, Rhys put a hand to his heart and took a long, shuddering breath.

The mating bond was silent.

Not gone- that thought alone kept the Night Court whole after his initial shock- but where it should have led to Feyre it led only to something thick and dark.

It was more wretched than anything Rhys had ever felt before.

For three years before she even came to Prythian, Rhys felt Feyre somewhere deep in his soul, perhaps even longer than that. Even before the bond itself snapped into place he had a small corner of his ruined heart carved out just for her, for every bit of hope and light and life that mysterious human girl gave him.

Now it was dark, barren, empty.

Like she’d been cut from existence.

The darkness cleared and he could see Mor shouting at him. His cousin was terrified. She ran to him and it was like she was moving at half speed. She grabbed his arms, begging him to explain- but Rhys heard none of it. All he could hear was a high-pitched ringing, all he could feel was the absence of Feyre.

Something was wrong.

Something was  _very_  wrong.

Mor vanished in a wave of blackness that swallowed all of Velaris. This time, when that darkness passed, Rhys was standing in a brilliantly green and damnably mild forest- surrounded by the fetid stench of roses and Spring magic. Buttery sunlight danced between the trees, painting everything an unnatural shade of golden-green.

There was a roar in the distance that cut through the silence in Rhys’ mind. He wrapped himself in a shield so thick, light itself had to bend around him. Within the shield Rhys wove the strongest glamour he was capable of, until even Hybern wouldn’t be able to detect him.

Tamlin was on the rampage, and as it always was with him he’d given himself wholly to the beast form.

Meaning-

Rhys sniffed at the air and detected that glorious scent of citrus-and-the-sea. It was strong, near enough that he knew he’d missed Feyre by no more than a few seconds. Rhysand ran into those ridiculous trees and followed the scent to a clearing littered with bodies. The Hybern royals were dead, with blood and gore splashed across a large rock. Beside it Ianthe slumped, her hand a purple, ruined mess.

He blasted around the clearing, following Feyre’s scent into the trees-

-but then it vanished.

She’d been cloaked- or cloaked herself- so that not even her scent gave away her position. Lucien Vanserra’s scent was with hers, and it was drenched in adrenaline. 

He was afraid, she was not. 

Not really.

Rhys traced her steps back into that clearing. He sidestepped the others and found an apple that was bathed in the scent of Feyre’s mouth. Rhys let his magic stroke the flesh of the apple, sensing what he could not. There was something on it- something akin to the thick darkness at the other end of his mating bond.

The apple- it was laced with something. Something that had muted Feyre to the point where even  _he_  couldn’t feel her.

Tamlin’s roar echoed through Spring again. Rhysand could hear him crashing through the trees, enraged and lost and confused. Feyre was gone- he didn’t know why obviously- but he was beginning to suspect.

Her scent was  _so_  near- Rhys knew that if he shouted, Feyre would find him. There was no way she was out of Spring yet-

-but not only would he give away his presence, whatever ruse she’d set up- whatever noose was wrapped around Tamlin’s throat even now- if he called to her and she came, everything would have been for nothing. No one in all of Spring could even  _suspect_  that he was there.

Rhysand  _had_  to believe she could find her way on her own. He had to trust her to survive until whatever hid their bond wore off for good.

Disappointment crashed into him and only added to the weight and strain on his soul. There was no ringing in his ears anymore, but a roar not of Tamlin’s making sounded from a pocket of his mind… This time it had nothing to do with the beast that prowled beneath his skin.

Rhys forced his thoughts northward to Velaris, and with more than a little regret he summoned those shadows once more and traveled the length of Prythian to the fight waiting for him there.

“Where’s Feyre?”

“What happened?!”

“Is she hurt? Is she alive?!”

Amren, Mor, and Cassian were bombarding Rhys with questions before he even properly formed. Azriel winnowed into the room while Rhysand was still orienting himself to the new place. After the pulse of fear went out from him across the land, the Inner Circle had converged upon the townhouse with incredible speed.

“She left Spring- Tamlin’s on a rampage. He has no idea what happened. Hybern’s Dagdan and Brannagh are both dead, Ianthe’s been mutilated-“

“Good girl.” Amren smiled slightly.

“-and Feyre’s power has been suppressed somehow. Probably faebane, but I’m not familiar with the scent. I think Spring is going to be unraveling in the coming days, we’ll have to be cautious. Lucien Vanserra may be with Feyre. I’m not sure if he’s helping her, holding her hostage, or hunting her. Her scent was masked but she was heading north.” Rhysand said.

Azriel took over before Rhys could draw a breath, “Mor, you start Under the Mountain, see if you can find any signs of movement out of the Spring cave and where it might have gone. She’s in a hurry and while unlikely, it could drive her there just to put distance between herself and Tamlin. If you’re lucky, you’ll spot Feyre on the way out of Spring.” Mor winnowed before Azriel finished speaking, “Cassian, how long can you stay in the air?”

“On my own? An hour.” He’d been flying that morning and was already exhausted, but he’d push himself however long he could.

“Fine, you take the border between Spring and Autumn, I’ll cover Spring and Summer. We search the northern side of the border, Rhys will cloak himself in as many glamours and shields as he can and monitor the Spring side. Rely on sight as well as scent, look for anything out of place.”

“Spring has their own tunnels to other Courts. Most of them were sealed during Amarantha’s invasion. I’ll start with those, then check the paths out.” Rhys grabbed Cassian and prepared to winnow back across Prythian. He cast an apologetic glance to Amren, “I’ll try my best to find someone for you to hunt later.”

“Don’t worry about me, go get your mate.” Amren growled. The males vanished in a flash, leaving her behind in the townhouse. There was nothing she could do- not as long as they were simply  _looking_  for Feyre. Her talents were in hunting and slaughter.

“Those pricks could have at least winnowed me to an Illyrian camp for a nice rampage.” Amren grumbled as she fell into a chair and waited for word on her friend.

—

* * *

—

Six days.

 _Six days_  of hunting, of searching, of not finding so much as a trace of where they’d gone.

Six days of hope, disappointment, and fear.

The Inner Circle returned to the Townhouse only when exhaustion forced them, and returned to the wilds without more than a couple of hours rest. Nuala and Cerridwen alone managed the spy network, and they gave Rhysand brief reports whenever he found his way home again.

Spring was falling apart. Every last trap Feyre laid for Tamlin was sprung with breathtaking results. His people turned on him hard and fast, and when Hybern sent a daemati to Ianthe’s recovery bed it took  _hours_  for the male to dismantle Feyre’s instructions (not that the whore of a priestess would ever admit).

Even then, Tamlin wasn’t convinced he’d been played by the female he’d stolen. He seemed to truly believe in the early, most critical hours that Dagdan and Brannagh had attacked in some way and she’d fled- or run off with Lucien at last.

 It didn’t really matter though- the  _moment_  Feyre was safe and home Rhysand intended to declare for all of Prythian to hear that she was his mate and the first-ever High Lady. No more secrets, no more room for those monsters in Spring to claim manipulation by Night. When Feyre was home, Tamlin would know  _clearly_  that he’d been played for a fool.

Azriel combed the border between summer and Spring for three days- shielded from any curious eyes on either side. When he was done there, he began a tour of the dungeons of every High Lord’s seat in Prythian, just in case Feyre had been captured.

Cassian and Mor donned whatever glamours they deemed necessary to infiltrate the lowest dregs of society and hunted some of the most notorious faerie on the continent. Bounty hunters, assassins, mercenaries- anyone who might have been hired to capture and deliver Feyre or Lucien Vanserra was questioned carefully, delicately.

Everyone knew Spring was shattered.

Everyone knew Feyre Cursebreaker had fled for her life after being brutalized by Hybern’s twin heirs.

No one knew what became of her afterwards.

Nesta and Elain were all but forgotten in the frantic scramble for Feyre. No one bothered to check on the Archeron sisters, and no one felt particularly rushed to inform them that anything was wrong. Even Cassian sent only short, mildly irritating letters to Nesta and did not expend precious energy on the flight up to the House of Wind.

Early in the morning on the sixth day, as Rhysand rose from another sleepless night, a shiver of cold licked down his spine… One he wasn’t entirely sure was of his own making.

He couldn’t track the feeling, and the mating bond stayed as dark and silent as ever, but it was her. It  _had_  to be. He just had to hope that it was a sign that whatever poison she’d been given was finally wearing off.

The rest of the Inner Circle was in the dining room when Rhys came down at last. Cassian was returning from the hunt, Mor grabbing a bite before heading back out, and Azriel was readying to resume his search, just like Rhysand. Amren was pouring over books to try and find some way to find Feyre  _faster_ , but whatever Hybern’s goons poisoned her with seemed to render her immune to tracking spells.

“I’m spending the day checking healers near the southern borders of Autumn and Summer,” Azriel muttered to his oatmeal, “she might have gone to one looking for an antidote, especially if the poison had any physical effects.”

“Here,” Rhys held out a small coin that Azriel slipped into his pocket. It would hold enough of a glamour to keep their enemies from noticing the Shadowsinger while he was corporeal.

Mor was digging into roasted chicken with spiced greens- her lunch, even though the sun was still rising. She ate quickly, eager to return to the search, “I’m writing off the tunnels Under the Mountain. Granted, if she was desperate fleeing Spring, she might have gone through there, but she’s had nearly a week of hiding… She’ll be above ground. I’ll take the healers in Summer Az, if you want Autumn.” Rhys flipped her another glamoured coin.

Nuala slid out of the shadows and handed a note to Rhysand. She cast an eye across the table, checking to see if any more food was needed before returning to whatever place the twins went when they were invisible.

“Only one ship has set sail from Spring towards Hybern. I killed everyone on board- eventually. Hybern and the human queens- neither of them have her.” Cassian took a large bite of steak. He needed protein to rebuild his energy as quickly as possible.

Rhysand’s heart was pounding in his chest as he read the note from Nuala. He’d entrusted the twins with a mission of their own after the attack in Hybern. While he was helping manage Azriel’s spies, Rhysand put in a request for information… It was just that this was the worst possible time for that information to arrive.

“I’ll be visiting the continent. I want to try and find a way into the queen’s palace.” Rhys braced himself for an argument.

Amren was the first to bite, “We know- as much as we can be certain- that Feyre hasn’t left Prythian. There is no point in going to the queen’s palace.”

“This isn’t about Feyre. We need to know what they’re up to and we can’t afford to delay any longer. You four are looking for Feyre, I might as well be useful somewhere.”

Mor was the second to snap, “Rhys- your  _mate_  is missing. I agree that we need information on the queens, but we can hold off on that until she’s home.”

“Can we?” Rhys raised an eyebrow, “Mor, Hybern could attack any day. Feyre shattered Spring beneath his nose- he could be sailing to Prythian right now-“

“ _Which is why we need to focus on finding Feyre,_ ” Mor looked around the table for support- or confirmation that she wasn’t the one who was insane at the moment.

Rhys needed them angry- he needed them to let him go without anyone following.

Azriel predictably took Mor’s side, “She’s right. As your spymaster, I only recommend searching for Feyre right now. We have spies at the ports in the human lands, they’ll tell us if the Queens ready to launch their armies. Cassian has been patrolling the sea between here and Hybern- there is no need for you to go to the continent. Not until we find her.”

“I need to do something and you all have everything in hand,” Rhys said a silent prayer of thanks for the bewildered anger on the faces of his Inner Circle. He agreed with them wholeheartedly, and he was more than happy that they pushed back against his plan.

But he couldn’t tell them the truth. Not now- and possibly not ever. Not if he wanted Feyre to forgive him for what he was about to do. Or rather, what he’d started when he gave the order to the twins in the first place. He honestly wasn’t sure how she would feel about it.

Cassian saw something in Rhys’ eyes that the others didn’t. He was too perceptive- something few gave him credit for. “Rhys- you could be the difference between finding her alive or- or-“ he couldn’t force the words out.

He didn’t need to.

Ever since the failed attack on Hybern, ever since they lost Feyre in the first place, thoughts of Rhys’ mother and sister were all too near. It was true though- if Feyre was in danger the split second advantage Rhys had over any enemy could be all that stood between life and death. She’d just struck a crushing blow to the male who betrayed the family of the Night Court to their graves. In his rage who knew what Tamlin might do to her? She had no power, no way to reach out to her friends- they  _needed_  Rhysand.

“I have to go. I have to do something. I’ll be back once I’m sure there’s no way in.”

Mor stood the same time he did, “Rhys,  _stop_! This is ridiculous! Your priority has to be Feyre-“

“I agree,” Rhysand cut her off, “and I am going to find any information that could give us an edge in war so that Feyre and as many of you as possible survive. Scour Prythian, leave no stone unturned, and keep in touch.” He winnowed away without another word, leaving three out of four bewildered and frustrated. 

Cassian didn’t like whatever Rhys was doing, but over even Azriel he could understand the truth of the situation. There was something Rhys needed to handle, and he wanted as few questions about it later on as possible.

There was a thread they’d left loose for far too long, and to save their future, Rhysand was doing whatever he could to find the missing Archeron before their enemies.

—

* * *

—

“Oy! Back away from the door.” A guard kicked the bars of the cell, waking the middle aged man resting against them.

He scrambled out of the way as the cell door was unlocked and a younger man was thrown in. He stumbled and crashed to the floor- but avoided taking any damage to his exposed hands or face. The tunic he wore was nice enough to mark him as a man of means- scarlet embroidered in golden thread. His black hair was a bit too long for polite society. His skin was tanned, his eyes blue, and around his wrist was a braided iron knot- all the hallmarks of a man who hailed from the desert tribes of the south.

“I thank you for your warm hospitality, gents!” The young man called as the guards locked the cell door and stomped off. He smiled and looked over at the older man “I think they like me.”

The older man snorted and leaned back against the stone wall of the cell. Only a small square of light trickled in from a window high above and he stretched his bare feet out to soak up what warmth he could from the sun, “It’s only you and me in here.”

“Isn’t it wonderful? I love a quiet dungeon. They’re so… homey,” the young man brushed some dirt off his tunic and made himself comfortable.

“That wasn’t what I meant, and I think you know it.” The man kept his smile pleasant. He had no desire to pick a fight, but he wouldn’t be played for a fool, “There are four cells in this dungeon, and only mine was occupied.”

“I don’t like being alone, I asked for company.”

“Mercenary warlords don’t particularly  _care_  what you ask for.”

The young one raised his eyebrows, “And what did you ask for,  _Lord Archeron_ , that landed you in a cell?”

“I asked for an army.”

“Did you lack the coin to pay them?”

The old man laughed, “Far from it. I offered them twice what they were asking.”

“And that landed you in a cage?”

“No, they just found out what they were hired to fight and decided I was a better investment dead than alive.”

Finally the smile faded from the young man’s face and he frowned, “A fight? I’d assumed you were hiring them to guard something.” Two something’s to be exact- though an entire mercenary army wouldn’t be enough to drag Nesta Archeron across the ocean if she didn’t want to go.

Especially not now.

“Prythian is waking, lad. There is something dark brewing north of the Wall that will destroy everything I hold precious and the Queens of the mortal lands won’t lift a finger to help. I spent my life disappointing three precious angels, it’s time I did something they could be proud of.”

“I don’t know if I’d call Nesta Archeron a ‘precious angel’,” the young man murmured, “more like ‘vicious she-devil’.”

“So, you’ve met her?” Lord Archeron didn’t seem too surprised. In fact, he looked almost relieved, “She inherits that temper from her mother. Don’t mind her… May I ask which of my daughters hired you to find me? You’ve obviously met Nesta, but I’ve failed her far too often for her to care if I fall off the face of this world… Elain, perhaps?” A bit of sadness flickered in his eyes, a pain that only seemed to fuel his determination.

“This isn’t the proper place for a chat. Shall we?” The young man held out a hand. After a moment’s consideration, Lord Archeron took it.

The world turned into something dark. Violent winds whipped around them and every fiber of their beings screamed against the stench of magic- sharp as citrus and laced with the scent of an ocean breeze. When the darkness cleared the men were seated in a small camp somewhere bright and lush.

They had to be a hundred miles from the mercenaries  _at least_.

“Better,” the young man released Lord Archeron and walked over to the far side of the camp. He stumbled slightly and shook his head to dispel dizziness, “Sorry- it’s a lot smoother when I’m not worrying about maintaining the glamour  _and_  all the dampers. Hiding power is one thing, appearing human is another entirely.” The young man waved a hand and a square of canvas fell out of thin air. “My credentials.”

Lord Archeron caught the canvas with a shaking hand. Before he even saw the painting on it- a spring rose- his eyes filled with tears. “She’s alive?” his voice was barely a whisper as he traced the petals, “My baby’s alive?”

“She is,” the man sat down and offered Lord Archeron a handkerchief. He didn’t accept it, “That one is a couple of weeks old. Full disclosure: I had it stolen.” 

“When she returned to Prythian I thought- I thought-“

The young man hesitated, “She isn’t the girl you remember… but she is alive.”

Lord Archeron continued to trace the brushstrokes of her painting, “Was she the one who sent you?”

“If she knew I was here, she’d probably kill me.” The young man didn’t even smile at that, “But… things have happened, and you are in a lot of danger.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Rhysand and I- I’m her friend.” Rhys swallowed hard and reinforced his glamour to hide not only his fae attributes, but also the shaking in his hands. An odd thought struck him- according to the laws of humans and fae both, since Feyre was his mate- the man sitting beside him now was his… his father.

It was centuries since he’d had one of those.

“Tell me what happened- why are you here if she wouldn’t want you to come? And why did you have to steal this painting?”

“Because if she had her way, it would have burned by now.” Rhys shook his head to clear away the fears that swirled there whenever he thought of Spring, “What did Feyre tell you about Prythian the last time you saw her?”

Lord Archeron looked up at last, “Only that something terrible was happening- a blight that could bring down the Wall.”

“Close enough, I suppose.” Rhys took a deep breath, “It wasn’t a blight, it was a female. A dangerous General of Hybern who tricked and enslaved the High Lords. Only Tamlin- the one who took Feyre from you- was allowed to remain in his Court and defend the Wall… But he fell too, and the General Amarantha claimed him.”

“Your daughter walked straight into her stronghold and challenged her for the freedom of Prythian. She won- but Amarantha killed her in retribution. Feyre Archeron- the lone human in a den of monsters- did what no High Lord had been able to do for fifty years… So after a High Lord killed Amarantha, all seven gave a piece of themselves to bring Feyre back in repayment of her bravery.”

Rhys was summarizing in the most basic terms, but he figured one day there would be time enough for Feyre to tell her father the tale in full, “She was remade as High Fae- her power exceeds even most High Lords now.”

“But she’s alive? She’s safe?” Lord Archeron grabbed Rhys’ hand tight, “Tamlin- the Lord of Spring- he kept her safe, right?”

Lying to Feyre’s father made Rhys’ stomach churn, but he didn’t come to frighten the old man, “She’s safe, and she’s alive, but Tamlin turned on her. He abandoned her when she needed him most, tried to turn her into a trophy instead of supporting her through the change. She was given refuge in the northernmost territory of Prythian- the Night Court. The High Lord there is known to most as the Lord of Nightmares- a sadist and a monster. But I  _swear_  to you that is just a front he uses to protect all that is good in his lands. He and Feyre are trying to stop Hybern from seizing control- they’re trying to save humans and fae alike.”

Normally Rhys would never speak so candidly about himself or his intentions- but he wasn’t speaking to a random stranger. He was reassuring a father that his youngest was safe and warning him against any lies Tamlin or Hybern might spin to lure him in.

That was why Rhys told Nuala and Cerridwen to find the Archeron patriarch: To do whatever it took to stop him from becoming a weapon against Ferye or a hostage in war.

“You should know- Feyre is loved fiercely in the Night Court. Against better judgement she fell in love with the High Lord, obnoxious as he might be. He loves her more than life itself, cherishes her above all others, and made her his Lady of Starlight. The were mates, and accepted the bond a little over a month ago. To put it in human terms- she married the lucky bastard.”

He expected shock or even surprise from Lord Archeron, but instead the old man simply asked, “Is she happy?”

“Yes. She found friends who love her deeply- who would give their lives or take any number of them to protect her- even before she married the High Lord.”

“And he respects her?” Lord Archeron’s voice hardened ever so slightly- the voice of a father.

“Always. She is his equal in every respect, a partner and a friend,  _never_  a subject, and  _never_  a trophy.”

Feyre’s father took a deep breath, “Thank the old gods.” He collected himself a moment before sitting up straight, “If war is brewing- if it’s safer there- could the High Lord be persuaded to take Nesta and Elain to his Court? They’ll put up a fight- especially Nesta- but at least they’d be safer than on the estate. The Lord of Spring’s blood money for Feyre bought that place, if he’s turned against my youngest then the other two aren’t safe there anymore.”

Rhys hesitated long enough for Feyre’s father to shoot him a worried look, “I’m sorry, we knew Tamlin would be angry with Feyre for leaving him, but we didn’t find out that he’d joined the enemy until it was too late… Nesta and Elain are alive but… they were turned. Hybern has an artifact, he joined with the human Queens, and to prove it could make fae out of humans he- he tested it on Nesta and Elain.”

“What happened?” Lord Archeron’s eyes were wide with fear.

“Elain was changed first. She’s- there was trauma and we’re still trying to break through. It was recent, and so far she isn’t speaking to anyone… Nesta- something happened when she was transformed. She looks High Fae but… She did something to break the artifact’s power. I think- I think she stole something from it as she changed. Cassian- the High Lord’s friend and Commander- has been keeping an eye on her. They get along- at least in that they seem to drive one another insane. For her that might even be friendship. Cassian thinks she may have stolen the power of Death from it.”

“Good,” Lord Archeron’s voice was hard.

“The High Lord and Feyre managed to rescue them. Nesta and Elain currently reside above the City of Starlight, deep in the Night Court’s lands. They are protected by the most powerful magics in Prythian- Hybern cannot reach them there.” Rhys stood and held out a hand. He let the human glamour bleed away, revealing his violet eyes and pointed ears. The natural glow of Prythian rolled from his skin, but he kept a firm damper on his power, “I came to take you to them.”

“What?”

“If Hybern or the mortal queens find you they will use you to control your daughters. You are the only living Archeron unaccounted for. I came to bring you to Night.”

Rhysand expected some hesitation perhaps, but overall it should have been an easy retrieval. He would winnow Feyre’s father back to Velaris and fly away as fast as his wings could take him before Nesta ripped them off. Then he could return to the hunt for Feyre, hope  _she_ didn’t rip his wings off either, and plan for war without worrying about stray Archerons running about.

“No.” Lord Archeron stood and backed away from Rhys, “You aren’t taking me anywhere.”

“I’m not your enemy- I work for Feyre, I  _swear to you_  that I will deliver you to Nesta and Elain within seconds.”

“Don’t you dare,” he stepped back further out of reach- not that it would matter if Rhys decided he was going.

“My mistress is Feyre Archeron, not the King of Hybern, you can trust me.”

Lord Archeron shook his head, “It isn’t a matter of trusting you, boy. You thought I was hiring mercenaries to drag my daughters into hiding- so what must they think? Their coward of a father, who didn’t raise, provide for, or even protect them- what do they think I’m doing here?”

“Please-“

“TELL ME WHAT THEY THINK.”

Rhys ground his teeth, “Don’t make me say it.”

“They think I’m a coward, hiding far away from danger, don’t they?” Reluctantly, Rhys nodded, “If you take me back now that’s all they’ll ever think. When I came here, the Queens laughed me out of the palace. I decided then that if they won’t help us, I would raise an army myself. The humans of Prythian will fight just like their ancestors did. There are three warships within a month or two of launching- more heavily armed than anything to ever sail the seas. I will fill them with every soldier I can find and protect the land my daughters were born to.”

A tear slid down Lord Archeron’s cheek and he took a shuddering breath, “I have failed them more completely than I thought was possible. I failed their mother’s memory. Even if I die at the next mercenary’s hive, I will at least be able to face my wife in the world beyond knowing I  _tried_  to make amends. Don’t take this from me- don’t take away the only chance at redemption I have. You don’t know what it’s like to be weak and worthless- to watch those you love suffer and do  _nothing_  to help them. I am my daughter’s greatest shame and I won’t live like that another day. Don’t take away my chance to make my life mean something again.”

“You could die-“

“I DON’T CARE!” A snarl lit Lord Archeron’s face and for a split second Rhys could see it- how the old man could be Feyre’s sire.

Rhysand stared him down for a long time, considering. He swore viciously and Feyre’s father relaxed a bit.

“Fine… But here-“ Rhys picked up a pebble off the ground and held it in both hands. He focused on the stone and buried in it a command wrapped in every ward and protection he could fit into such a small talisman. When it was done, he tossed the rock to Lord Archeron, “That will keep you safe and link you back to the Night Court. Keep it on your person at all times- waking or asleep. Most humans will find it difficult to remember your name- the ones that do are to be avoided because they are likely spies for the queens. If you are meeting with anyone you’ll have to give them a location, not just someone to ask after. The stone is the anchor for a basic personal shield and- if it is ever more than five feet from your heart, it will summon either me or one of two  _very_  bloodthirsty males with black wings. When you launch from these shores -“

“ _RHYSAND! FIND ME!”_  A scream blasted through the veil of the mating bond and nearly stopped Rhys’ heart cold.

Feyre.

An image arrived with her scream- a frozen lake, Eris and his brothers on the approach, a horde of Autumn soldiers waiting to claim her.

_No! No no no no no-_

Rhys screamed for Cassian, Mor, and Azriel with everything inside of him, “ _Feyre is in Winter, near the border with Autumn, somewhere with a large lake. Autumn is attacking and I’m too far away to reach her in time- GET HER OUT AND BACK TO VELARIS NOW!”_

He  _felt_  his friends snapping into action- Mor would winnow back to Cassian while Azriel found the lake. They would get her- they  _had_  to get her.

“What’s wrong?” Lord Archeron was in front of Rhysand within moments as the male stumbled. The connection to his friends went silent for a moment, then-

“ _I found them, northern edge. Mor- drop Cassian from altitude, then get to the border of Winter and Dawn- do whatever you have to and draw their eye while we get Feyre!”_

 _“Incoming!”_  Rhys saw through Mor’s eyes as she appeared high above the lake where two figures held off Autumn as best they could. Something was wrong, they were losing the fight, then-

Then Mor was crashing into a snow bank in Dawn, and Cassian and Azriel shut their minds to Rhys while they entered the fray.

“WHAT’S HAPPENING?!” Feyre’s father shook Rhysand, snapping his attention back.

“Once your ships launch, the stone will take you to the armies of the Night Court, use it as a guide. Anyone friendly to our cause will sense that magic and rally around you- don’t be afraid if you find yourself traveling with a winged army on your back. We haven’t been able to reach them yet, but they’ll sense your departure.” Rhys was speaking as quickly as human ears could follow, but he  _needed_  to go protect his mate. The bond was silent once more, as though that poisonous darkness had sensed Feyre’s breakthrough and hurried to fill the hole she’d pierced in its shield.

“Rhysand you stop right this second and tell me what is happening? Is it Feyre? Is she alright?!” Lord Archeron had seen the color drain from Rhys face and read clearly how he was straining to keep himself nearby.

Rhys reached out and grabbed the man’s shoulder, barely remembering to ease his grip so as not to mutilate him on accident. He was scared- more scared than he’d ever been in his life. His breath was fast and ragged as he waited- waited for a sign from his friends that-

“ _Safe._ ” Cassian only had the energy for one word and the briefest image of Feyre standing at his side. Eris was bloody on the ice, a look of pure shock on his face.

Rhys could guess why when he saw the mark of her title exposed by a shredded sleeve.

He pulled Feyre’s father into a crushing hug, “She’s safe. She’s alright. They found her.”

“Found her- you said she was safe before!”

“I lied, I do that a lot when I’m nervous.” Rhys stepped back and put a hand over his heart. It was thundering, but also rising faster than he thought possible. Safe. She was safe. Cassian had her. She’d be home soon. “She’d infiltrated Tamlin’s Court to steal intelligence about the attack. She vanished a week ago and we’ve been trying to find her ever since. Cassian- my Commander- has her now- she’s on her way home.”

Lord Archeron’s eyes were wide for a moment. Rather than waste more time with questions, he reached into his tunic and pulled out a white-gold ring on a long chain, “Then go to her and make  _sure_  she’s alright. If so much as a hair on her head has been harmed, just give me the fae’s name and I will make sure my men know there’s a king’s ransom on it. Here-“ he broke the chain and pulled the ring free.

“This has been in my family for three generations. I had to sell it when we- when  _I_  sent us into poverty and debt. It was the first thing I bought back when our fortune was returned.” He took Rhys’ hand and quickly passed the ring into his palm, “This might not be as fine as anything faerie-made, but it is an heirloom passed from father to son.”

Rhys willed himself to accept the ring slowly- not snatch it and winnow straight to Feyre.

“ _Safe._ ” Another report came from Mor with the image of Feyre held tight in her arms. Rhys almost stopped breathing.

When he spoke, it was a whisper, “I will give this to the High Lord.” 

“Cut the bullshit, you just called that Cassian boy ‘ _my_  Commander’, before he was the High Lord’s,” Lord Archeron closed Rhys’ hand around the ring, “take care of my daughters, and be a husband worthy of someone as good and kind as Feyre. Don’t tell them I’m coming- I want it to be a surprise when I show up and blast Hybern’s ships out of the water.”

Rhys swallowed hard and nodded, “I’ll make this my wedding ring. Thank you. And here-“ he waved a hand and several trunks of precious gemstones filled the camp, “-use this to pay whatever it takes to get those mercenaries onto your ships. No more prison cells.”

“Good luck, son.” Lord Archeron gave him a quick squeeze on the arm before stepping back.

“Good luck… father.”

With that Rhysand unleashed the damper on his power, traded his human tunic for a trademark black suit, and winnowed straight into the townhouse.

“Home. This is- my home.” Feyre’s voice filled his ears, his  _soul_. She was facing away from him, speaking with Lucien Vanserra, who looked like he was considering throwing up versus screaming, “This is Velaris. The City of Starlight.”

“And you are High Lady of the Night Court.” He breathed.

Rhysand barely managed to summon a bit of his trademark snark as he took a slow breath, “Indeed she is.”

As angry as they might have been at him for running off that morning, his friends began to smile as Ferye’s entire body stiffened. As she scented her mate for the first time in a hellish six weeks.

She turned and just as memories of the past month and a half crashed into her they poured over Rhysand once more. All the fear, all the horror, all the doubting- everything he thought he would lose, every sleepless night, every fear, every nightmare- his smile faded with hers.

Feyre covered her mouth as a broken sob escaped. She fell to her knees, and in an instant Rhysand was there. He pulled her hands away from her face- that perfect, beautiful face he never thought he’d see again. Pure, raw love flooded through him at the sight of those blue eyes and his skin burned as he cupped her face in his hands and brushed away her tears.

“My love,” it was all he could think to say as he wrapped his arms around Feyre and kissed her at long last.

As she kissed him back, as her hands slid into his hair and it struck him again that he was  _actually_  holding her, Rhys’ heart cracked just a bit.

He wasn’t letting her go.

He would  _never_  let her go.

* * *

**The End**


End file.
